
aPAviD Barker. 



IftBiUMMMMj 



mMm 



4r" 









,<^ •'^ 



'%> 



Sill 












i 



POEMS 



DAVID. BARKER 



Historical Sketch 



HON. JOHN E. GODFREY. 



BANGOR: ■: 



PKE6S OF SAMUEL S. SMITH & SON. 
1876. 



Hv- 






Vt^ 



coPYRionr 

SUSAN C. BAKItER, Widow, 

AND 

WALTER C. AND MAUD BARKER, 

CHILDREN OF 

DAVID BARKER. 

1876. 



ad. COPY 

SUPPLIED FROM 

COPYRIGHT FILES 

JANUAHY. 1911. 



PREFACE. 



On the 7th of July, 1874; my brother David wrote me an 
affectionate letter, concludinj^ as follows: 

"I shall do my best to live hcrejbelow awhile longer, but 
the chances look doubtful. Should we not meet again, do 
what you think best with the songs I have sung here, and I 
promise you one from beyond at the eai'liest possible hour, 
and from a harp attuned by your angel daughter Evvie, if I 
can find her upon the same plane upon which I am permitted 
to enter, with the lingering earth stains which may be found 
upon me." 

In a few weeks afterward he was at my office in Bangor, 
tottering upon his cane, and there for the first time met Mr. 
Wiggin, the author of the "Epistle to Davie," appended to 
the biographical sketch, by Judge Godfrey, herein published. 
It gave me great pleasure to introduce the poets to- each 
other. At the close of the interview, David said to Mr. Wig- 
gin : "I don't know whether the world will remember me, 
Ed., but if they do, you shall live with me ;" and turning to 
me, said: "See to it. Lew., that avc. go down through the 
years together." 



Aftoi- his dontli, in Scptcmbei- followino-, liis Avidow sent 
mo all liiH nianui^cripls, as loft by him, carefully folded up, 
Avith the ibllowiui;- direction piiined t)n iheni: 

JMEMOUANDUlSr.-JULY 15, '74. 
Tho accompanyiii};- manuscript contains all the poems I have preserved, and 
ft'om which tho proper selections arc to be made, if publislied. I regret that some 
scraps coutainoil herein wore written, anil tiiat I have not health to copy tho good 
and reject the othoi-. If my brother Lewis survives me, and publishes my poems, 
ho will see to i(. D. B. 

Thouirh .shrinking iVoni tho thought of inviting public 
attention to myself, and all unfitted for this kind of work, I 
dared not decline tho thrice imposed duty thus enjoined upon 
me by ono so dear to me. 

The following volume contains b}' far the greater part of 
what he has written. I have carefully preserved and had 
bound, in two volumes, eveiy scrap of his original manuscript, 
that somebody ma}^ correct any error I may have committed, 
in my selections or rejections, if it shall ever be deemed worth 
the while to do so. 

The "First Courtship" has never before been published. 
Almost eveiy other production in this volume has, within the 
last twenty-five years, been seen floating ui)on the sea or in 
tho cdtlios of American newspaperdom. "Early EeeoUec- 
tions" was his first and "Katahdin Iron Works" was his last 
publication. In my selections I have been governed by the 
singl(7 rule of excluding oxcry word which I thought he might 
now regret having written. 

LEWIS BAEKER. 

Bangor, .lanuarv, 1S7C). • 



CONTENTS. 



* PAGE. 

Biographical and Historical Sketch, ix 

3Iy First Courtship, 3 

MASONIC POEMS. 

A Welcome to Hugh De Payen Commandery, 201 

Faith, Hope and Charity, 203 

Give Them Bread and Not a Stone, 165 

John Warner's Not Dead, 170 

My Last Request, 159 

The Templars, 131 

The Sign of Distress, 104 

The Mason's Death and Burial, 169 

Proposed Meeting of NortJiern and Southern Masons, 186 

RELIGIOUS. 

Died, 122 
Laying the Corner Stone, Exeter, ' 215 

The Atheisfs Last Look, 218 

The Covered Bridge, 107 

The Pale Boatman, 113 

Thoughts at a Puneral, 206 

mien. Where and How Shall I Die, 161 



yi CONTENTS. 




MORAL AND SKNTIMENTAL. 


PAGE 


A Solace for Dark Hours, 


118 


Act Yourself, 


lil 


All at Home, 


135 


At the Front, 


227 


Billy Dee, 


200 


Early .Recollections, 


120 


Fanny Ward, 


134 


Hope of Bliss, 


158 


Influence and Retribution, 


172 


Katahdin Iron Works, 


229 


Light, 


221 


My Sister, 


125 


Mary Hall, 


120 


My Child's Origin, 


124 


Make Yoiir Mark, 


16G 


Mary Dee, 


207 


Never Get Ready to Die, 


160 


Old Rufus Ray, 


148 


Only She and I, 


123 


One World at a Time, 


139 


Pious Like Hell, 


168 


Prayers and Kisses, 


205 


The Poor Wood Hauler, 


110 


The Shepherd and the Lamb, 


111 


The Fools Ain't All Dead, 


144 


To Leather French, 


115 


Try Again, 


173 


The Uyider Dog in the Fight, 


103 


The Poet's Invitation, 


192 



CONTEXTS. 



The Bcvdlcd Grindstone, 

The Two Prisoners, 225 

The Blind Gateman, . 208 

The Bradbury Boys, 210 

Unfinished Task, 231 

Where the Old Folks Lived and Died, 106 

When You and I Where Boys, 136 

* PATRIOTIC. 

A Welcome to the Second Maine Begiment, 112 

A Few Words About the Burns Case, 143 

General Berry, 108 

Lines to John A. Hill, 191 

Old Willey, 153 

Old Camp Ground, 114 

Soldiers of Meduxnekeag, ' 163 

The Old Ship of State, 130 

The Rebellion, 178 

The Empty Sleeve, 176 

To John Brown in Prison, 133 

You Thousand of Men, 139 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

An Hour with Tom Plumadore, ' 217 

Apostrophe to a Gong, 174 

A Song for the Boys, 188 

A Thought, 223 

Cornele, 227 

Five Stanzas, 189 

Hammer and Anvil 185 



Viii. CONTENTS. 

I'AGE. 

Lines Suggested by Wendell Phillips' Lecture, 20-1 

Steamboat Knitting, 224 

Saxon Pluck, ■ 150 

The Lion and Skunk, 146 

The Six Fellows, 196 

The Wheat and the Tares, 195 

The Spanked Bottom, 184 

The Third Cremation, 213 

What is True Poetry, 219 



BIOGRAPHY. 

Nearly twenty y<3iir,s ivjio tlnsro aiJpcui'od in tins New York 
Eccniiuj Pod the lolhnviiiy Htaiiztis: — 

MY CHILD'S OIIIGIN. 

One iiiffht, as old Saint I'ctcr slept, 

H(; IcCt l,li(! ilooi- or ll(!av<!a ajar, 
Wlien llirouffli, a little angel crept, 

And came down with a falling Htar. 

One Bummcr, as the bleflBcd beams 

Of morn approached, my blushing brido 
Awakened fVom some pleasing dreams, 

And found that angel by lier side. 

God grant but this— I ask no moi'C— 

Tliat when he leaves this world of sin. 
He'll wing his way for that lilcst shore, 

And And the door of Heaven again. 

The liiicH iiiiinodiiitcly attracted attention and were copied" 
extensively into the newspaper press tliroughoiit the country. 
Governor Andrew was so impressed Ijy them that he carried 
them with him, affirming that they were "the sweetest lines 
ho ever read." 

Of course their paternity was soon discovered, and the 
name of David Barker became familiar. That such charming 
verses should escape the profane hand of the parodist was too 



lilOGRArillV.if.. 



much to expect, when those of Longfellow and Whittier conld 
not. Tliey ciiine out from under it, liowever, with n greater 
lustre, and, notwithstanding the momentary shock to his sen- 
sibilities Avhen it iirst fell under his eye, Mr. Barker had the 
satisfaction which Mrs. Sarah .T. Hale experiences in regard to 
an early poem of her own, which had been subjected to many 
travesties, that it "has done a world of good, nevertheless;" 
and of knowing that his little gem would sparkle when parody 
and parodist were buried in oblivion. 

Other productions of Mr. Barker have added no Utile to 
his reputation. Among them "The Old Ship of State," "The 
Under Dog in the Fight," "The Covered Bridge," and "The 
Empty Sleeve," have met Avith great favor. That, however, 
which in the opinion of many of his friends, will bo most 
enduring, is his longest poem, "M}' First Courtship." There 
is so much apparent reality in the scenes described in that 
poem, and many of the forms of expression adopted ai*e so 
happily introduced, that the peoj^le of his region, to whom 
their signiticance is clear, will recur to it with delight. 

In the last years of his life, this poem was read by Mr. 
Barker to many audiences in different parts of the State, and 
from the admirable iaculty he had of inoffensivel}' pressing 
into his service, on occasion, the names of prominent 
individuals in the assembly, as if they were of the dramatis 
persona-, he created great amusement among his hearers. 

Mr. Barker was born and reared, and spent the chief part 
of his life, in the thrifty agricultural town of Exeter, in the 
State of Maine. At the time of his birth, the population of 
that town, not five hundred, was composed chiefly of sensible, 
hard-working, enterprising people, wlio had immigrated 



BIOGRAPHICAL. xi 

thither poor, but with a determination to have a share in the 
world's prosperity. Among these pioneers was Nathaniel 
Barker, a native of Exeter, New Hampshire, then late a resi- 
dent of Limericlc, Maine. He came in 1802^ and was instru- 
mental in having the name of his native town given to this 
one of his adoption. He took up a farm, and, in 1807, mar- 
ried Sarah Pease, then of Exeter, but born in Parsonsfield, Me., 
a wife not behind him in heroism and enterprise. Ten 
children were the fruit of the marriage, the sixth of whom 
was David. Hon. Noah Barker was the oldest, and Hon. 
Lewis Barker was the se^'^enth. Both of these gentlemen 
have held prominent positions in the State. 

David Avas born September 9, 1816. When in his seventh 
3'ear, the family were thrown into deep affliction by the death 
of the father, who was accidentally killed, in Bangor, by his 
team, in 1823. The suddenness of the calamity was sufficient 
to unnerve a person of less sensibility than the widow; but, 
though overwhelmed with grief, she at once comprehended, 
and bi-avely assumed, her double responsibility. It was im- 
portant that she should know what were her resources for the 
support of her family. She found that her husband's estate 
must be administered upon, and relying mainly upon herself, 
she commenced early proceedings in the Probate Court, riding 
on horseback nearly thirty miles over devious bridle-paths 
and rough roads, to and from Bangor, in doing her business. 
She discovered that the estate was insolvent; and all she 
could obtain, Avith which to sustain her young family, was an 
allowance of three hundred dollars from the Judge of Probate, 
and a trifle of dowei-. But, with this little property and the 
encouragement of her older children, she resolved to make the 



BIOGBAPHICAL. 



attempt to live independently of outside assistance. She was 
upon the farm that her husband had purchased, but it was 
incumbered for more than it was worth. She and her chil- 
dren determined to redeem it, and they did ; and now, at the 
age of eightj^-six, she lives upon that farm. 

Hon. Josiah Crosby, in his eloquent eulogy upon the sub- 
ject of this sketch, notices the mother and itunily in the follow- 
ing language : — 

" The mother was a woman of great energy of character, 
and strong religious faith. A family council was held at which 
it was resolved by the mother and concurred in by all those 
of the children of sufficient maturity of judgment to take part 
in the deliberations, not to separate, but to keep the family 
together, seeking no aid from relatives or strangers', but rely- 
ing upon their own strength, and faith in God. The event 
has signally justified the wisdom of their resolve. The child- 
ren all grew up, were well educated, and have all attained to 
and maintained a highly respectable position in socle t3^ In 
contributing to this happy result, the children have ever been 
justly proud to acknowledge their obligations to the influence 
of their mother's energ}^, wisdom and force of character. I 
have also ever believed that to the precepts of their elder 
brother Noah, but more especially to the quiet, unobtrusive 
but constant force of his example in integrity, industry and 
perseverance, much of their success in life is to be attributed. 
Their bereaved condition, instead of depressing their spirit, 
taught them habits of self-reliance, inspired energy, and fitted 
them to combat with the world perhajJS with more success in 
after life, than if the great misfortune of their youth had not 
befallen them. The case may perhaps aff'ord another illustra- 
tion of the truth of the trite remark, that our gi-eatest afilict- 
ions are often blessings in disguise." 

David was too young at the time of his father's death to 
be of much assistance to his mother, but he early learned that 



lilOGliAI'lIlCAL. 



bo must depend upon himself when he had attained to BufR- 
cient age. Ho had ambition for knowledge, and was an apt 
scholar. Until about sixteen years of age, he had only the 
advantages of the common school. He had, then, by his 
industry, obtained sufficient means to enable him to attend the 
Academy in Foxcroft. In that excellent school he made such 
proficiency that, after a time, he was employed in it as an 
assistant. After leaving Foxcroft, he engaged in school teach- 
ing, and soon became soj)Opular as a teacher that his services 
for common schools were always in demand. He was em- 
ploj-ed in his own and neighboring towns, and was at one 
time called away from home as far as Eastport, where hu exer- 
cised his skill as instructor very satisfactorily. 

But' it was not his intention to make teaching his voca- 
tion. He thought that a trade would be more manly, as well 
as more profitable, than the profession of a pedagogue. And 
he was correct, for, in that day, the common school master 
was deemed a sort of neeessaiy evil, and paid accordingly. 
He chose the trade of blacksmith. He was too frail, however, 
for the severe toil required by that occupation, and, after a 
short apprenticeship, his health broke down, and he left it to 
be always an invalid. 

When Samuel Cony (the late Governor Cony,) first 
established himself as a lawyer in Exeter, Mr. Bai'ker entered 
his office to qualify himself for the profession of the law. He 
made due proficienc}^, and was with that gentleman until he 
removed to Oldtown. He then went into an office in Bangor, 
and, not long afterwards, was admitted to the Bar. He opened 
his law office in Exeter, and was in successful practice there 
until within two or three years before his death, when his 



DIOORAPniCAL. 



physical system had become so shattered that he did little else 
than occasionally occupy himself in poetical composition ; 
reading sometimes in public when he felt strong enough. But 
the time came, at last, when he had to relinquish that delight- 
ful employment. 

While on a visit to his friends in Bangor — yet maintain- 
ing the belief that many years were in store for him — he 
quietly sunk into his final slumber. He died at the house of 
his brother, Mark Barker, Esq., September 14, 1874, at the 
age of fifty-eight years. 

At the next term of the Supreme Judicial Court, in 
October, Judge John A. Peters presiding, the following reso- 
lutions of the Penobscot Bar wei-e presented by Hon. Josiah 
Crosby, accompanied by an eloquent and touching tribute to 
his memory'. 

Resolved, That the members of Penobscot Bar have heard 
with deep sensibility the announcement of the death of Brother 
David Barker, a member of this Bar. 

That, as a mark of respect to his memory, we desire to 
put on record our cheerful testimony to his ability as a lawyer, 
his amiability, urbanity and unquestioned integrity; and we 
shall ever remember with much interest those other gifts by 
which he was distinguished in the lists of poetic fame. 

That these proceedings be recorded, and a copy of the 
same be communicated to his family by the Secretary in token 
of our sympathy with them in their great bereavement. 

Mr. Crosby, who knew him well — having for many j^ears 
been his nearest neighbor of the profession — said : 

" His ability and attainments in the legal profession, not- 
withstanding constant feebleness of health, were highl}^ res- 
pectable; and there is no doubt that had his health been firm, 
and his physical powers equal to his mental, he might have 



nioanAPnicAL. 



atliiined to ix distini^uisliod ])Osilioii at the bear. Tlioso of his 
brethren who some lifteen or twoiily yeiir.s siiico were 
iieciistomed to mwX liiiu in tlie conflicts of the iU'cnti, ^ill well 
remenihei- that victory over Hiich an anta<^oniHt was not easily 
won. Feebleness of health, however, seated upon tlie nervous 
system had a tendency to create a disrelish for the combative 
part of legal jM-aetice, which ho finally relinquished, and gladly 
sought a pui-er and higher enjoyment in the iascinating realms 
of poesy. 

In liis i)i'actiee he was ever honest and honorable. His 
word was never doubted. Sympathy foi' the distressed, was a 
most jM-ominent trait. " lie never o])prossed the poor, never 
treated them with haughtiness, never trod upon their feelings. 
His heart and purse were ever open to the calls of charity. 
His poem on the Masonic sign of distress could never have 
origina(<'d with one not in symjnithy with tin; unfoilunate. It 
was "this trait, undoubtedly, which, when man}' years ago to 
be called an al)olitionist was in the minds of most people, to bo 
called by a term of reproach ; in the times when Wm. Lloyd 
Garrison was mobbed, and churches were burned, I say it was 
in great measui-e this trait which led him to break loose from 
all his ])olitical afiiliaiions, and to claim for himself the appella- 
tion of the unpopular abolitionist. He was not only honest in 
his business relations, but he had in a marked degree that 
higher type of honesty, which caused him to be faithful in tho 
expression of his convictions, and to follow them to their logi- 
cal result. — He desired not tlic rewards of ])olitical ambition. 
Tho only ])olitical position he ever held was that of represen- 
tative in the Legislature, Avhich he filled one year at the request 
of his townsmen, with much credit. 

No man was ever more free from tho trammels of dogmas, 
creeds and traditions, but his religious faith was strong. He 
had a firm belief in an overruling Providence; the life here- 
after; and that death was but an entrance to a higher state of 
existence; as that impressive poem, " The Covered Bridge," 
will readily bring to the mind. His religion, however, was 
not of the boisterous kind. It consisted in doing to others as 



BIOGRAPHICAL. 



he would have others do to him, rather than the observance 
of forms and ceremonies, and the utterances of emotion. 

In one department, tliat of poetrj^ he had obtained a dis- 
tinguished reputation, a lotvt'hicli seklom happens to travelers 
in the rugged and difficult paths of the legal profession. 
Poetry he loved. The muses answered kindly to his call, and 
it was a source of just satisfaction "to him, that he had written 
some things which would live after him. The " Sign of Dis- 
tress," "The Covered Bridge," "The Empty Sleeve" and 
many others of his productions, and poems will not soon die." 

Judge Peters b"ore testimony to hi^ excellent qualities 
in the following graceful response : 

" Gentlemen of the Bar: — I am happy that it falls to myself 
as a member of this Court, to express a cordial concurrence in 
the sentiments contained in your resolutions, and in the warm 
and glowing tribute of respect paid to the deceased by your 
committee, in presenting them, 

I first knew the deceased, when I came to the Bar of this 
countj^, about thirty years ago. I very well remember his 
encouraging expressions to me when I was engaged in trying 
the first cause that 1 ever tried in this court. After I had 
gained some position at the bar, in the ti-ial of causes, he often 
employed me for his clients. I do not now recollect that v>'e 
were ever opposing attoi-neys, in any litigated case. We were 
often together. In our professional intercommunication, he 
wrote to me many letters — some of them in verse — of a humor- 
ous character, containing flashes of wit and fun. Our relations 
led mc to know him well. 

Although he was not lacking in any of the intellectual 
quaUties which would have made him a successful advocate, 
still he v/as disinclined to take upon his shoulders the heavy 
responsibilities and burdens which an advocate has to bear^ 
But he Avas a most valuable associate. His court business was 
always perfectly prepared. There was great method and 
completeness in his preparation of causes for trial. His per- 
ceptions were very quick and exact; and his whole soul was 
engaged in any cause undertaken by him. 



lilOGllAPHICAL. 



After all, professional life, evidently, was not entirely in 
accord with his prodomiiiating tastes; and for that reason, he 
has established before the world more position and reputation 
out of, than in the courts. 

lie was extensively knoAvn and appreciated as a man. He 
was invariably courteous and cordial. It was always pleasant 
to meet him. His nature was kindly and sympathetic, and 
sensitive. This led him to be, sometimes, easily elated or 
depressed. Still he had great firniness of purpose and serious 
and settled convictions, although never obtruded upon anjdiody 
or offensively expressed.^ He had no toleration for the shows 
or shams of societ}-, either in the social or the moral world. 
We all very well remember how well he loved his country 
during the late war ; how absorbed he was in its exciting 
scenes; Avhat an enthusiast he was about the questions, 
regarded by him as affecting human freedom ! He found in 
those stirring events an inspiration for that peculiar literary 
effort for vfhich he possessed a gift. 

His poetical productions will be the principal monument 
to his fame and memor3^ I frequently urged him to collect 
and publish them, while he lived. I was satisfied that they 
would meet with marked public favor, vv^hich would have been 
a great gratification to him. But nothing would have more 
deepy affected him, in his life time, than 'an anticipation and 
belief— if such a thing could have been — that this grateful and 
tender tribute was in store for his memory from this bar. My 
personal sentiment and feeling is, that observances like this 
should not pass into neglect, or out of our esteem. They may 
serve to stimulate a motive for honorable conduct at the bar. 
There can be no better memorial offered for honorable profes- 
sional life than a tribute from the fraternity, placed upon the 
records of the courts where honorable character has been 
attained in the practice of the law. 

The name and character of our lamented brother Avill 
long be fresh within our memories. He will be long remem- 
bered by us for his cordial, personal greetings ; his pleasant 
anecdotes, and playful remarks ; his activities and sympathies 



BIOGRAPHICAL. 



in all the events that iov many years passed about us ; his gifts 
in poetical effusions that hit off oui* local habits, customs and 
character; his own good character as a man, and his unsullied 
reputation as a practitioner at this bai\ 

It was sad to see him in the prime of manhood pass 
away. His death has cast a gloom and shadow upon our 
path. It is another reminder that life is but "a vapor that 
aj)pcaroth for a little time, and soon vanisheth away." 

But we have the consolation that death is the l^eginning 
of immortality. As Longfellow expresses it — 



'There is no death! 
NVh.'it seems so is transition." 



In compliance with your request the resolutions of the 
bar are ordered to be entered on the records of this Court; 
and as a further mark of respect this Court will now be 
adjourned." 

Mr. Barker left a widow — the daughter of Timoth}^ Chase, 
Esq., of Belfast — and a son and a daughter. While not AA^hat 
would bo called "a money getter," yet he left a tolerable estate. 
When his unpromising start in life, and his struggles always 
with disease, from his maturity, are considered, there must be 
a feeling of satisfaction that his success was so great. As a 
poet he Avill live. There are many gems from his pen that 
cannot die. The touching references to his mother, in several 
of his poems, will endear him to all who maintain their regard 
for the fiHal sentiment, and they are legion. 

His townsmen manifested their regard for his abilities by 
electing him a Kepresentative to the Legislature of 1872. 
But, though he was a useful member, and very popular, yet 
thiB kind of public life was not to his taste, and he had no 
desire to be returned. His modesty led him to doubt his right 
to any peculiar public regard, and he was often subject to sur- 
prises. That his poetical fame should bring to him the 



BIOGRArniCAL. 



degree of A. M., from Bowdoin College, was as gratifying as 
it was unexpected. From individuals in different j^arts of the 
country, who had been moved by one or another of his poems, 
he received letters expressing deep obligations for the pleasure 
he had afforded them. But the surprise which, of all others, 
most affected him, was a poetical greeting he received from 
one who had been a soldier in the war of the Eebellion, of 
whom he then had neyer heard, but whom he afterwards 
met and thanked for his charming compliment — assuring him 
that, should his own effusions be remembered, these verses 
should share their fortune, so far as he could make provision 
therefor. It is fitting that they should have a place here. 

The stanzas were printed in the Bangor Daily Whig and 
Courier, from which they were taken, with the preliminary 
remarks of the editor, Capt. G. A. Boutelle, 



EPISTI.K TO DA VIE. 



K 1) \V A II 1) W KJ (J I N , J R. 



These linos were iiitemled lor penisal only by llio " liurd of Exclcr," Me., David 
Barker, Esf]., to whom tlicy were juldrcssed; but liaving come into ourposBCSsion, 
wo have talion the liberty of giving them that wider publicity to which their except- 
ional merit entitles them.— Editoic. 

My Duvic dcrfr, 1 lano- liac thougbl 

That I Buld liko to know yo, 
If but to milk' acknowledgment 

O' a' the debt I owe yo ; 
A debt o' gratitude untold, 

For Btrains sae sweet an' true, mon, 
They struck my heart's maiHt tender chords, 

An' thirlcid thom thro' an' thro', mon. 

I've aften thought, 'I'll write the lad,' 

But modesty restrained me, 
(It's been the bane o' a' my life. 

An' mucklo it has pained mo); 
An' something said "Why tak' the pains? 

Why, mon, gin ye had wrat it. 
He'll tak no notice o't ava 

Yo'U never ken ho gat it." 

But this ae morn when a' alane, 

An' time was hinging heavy. 
Said I (I've said't a thousand tihies), 

"By Jovp! I'll write to Davie," 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 



If he'll disdain a britlicr moii 

Because he's ca'd a poet, 
Then illca lino belies him sure, 

His verses dinna show it. 

I mind ao night in days lang syne, 

When by the camp-fire seated, 
A brither soldier, sin' gane hame, 

Some lines o' yours repeated. 
'Twas thataboot the 'Empty Sleeve.,' 

It moved us a' to tears, 
Tho' some o' us had grown sac hard 

We hadna greet for years. 

An' years agane, when my sweet bairn 

Went o'er my heart to heaven, 
An' frae my vera saul the light 

0' life seemed darkly driven, 
I chanced ae day in some auld prent 

Thae lines o' yours to meet, 
Aboot the 'Shepherd an' the Lamb,' 

An' oh, they seemed sae sweet.' 

O Davie, mon, 'tis sweeter far 

To speak a word o' cheer, 
To some puir brither sinner's heart, 

When a' seems mirk an' drear; 
To cast ao glintin' ray o' light 

Across some darkened way — 
'Tis sweeter far than warld's applause, 

Or gear that can decay. 



EPISTLE TO DA VIE. 



But gin I diuna luie a cave 

I'll o'oii get melancholio, 
All' then my niuso (she's weak at best) 

Will sure desert mo wholl}^ 
Not aye ye rhyme o' tender themes, 

But aften i' your daffin', 
Ye rln us aff a random screed, 

Near pits us dead wi' laughin'. 

Your 'Bevelled Grunstanc' true to life — 

How aft I've seen sic misers, 
Sac mean they aye o'errcach themsel's 

In spite o' a' advisers. 
An' thao queer lines ye read the day 

The sodgers met thegither, 
Aboot 'Auld Willey's gaun t' enlist — 

'Tvvas better e'en than tithcr. 

Your 'Dog' but gin I name them a' 

'Twad male' owre lang a letter. 
But ilka ither ane ye write 

Is sure to be the better ; 
An' just the ither day ye met 

Wi' frien's frae far awa', 
An' thrawed us aff the 'Bradbury Boys,' 

By Jove! 'ts the best o' a'. 

There's ae thing aye aboot yure rhj^mes 

That draws me kin'ly to 'em, 
An' that's the strain 'o manliness 

That's ever rinnin' thro' 'em : 



El'lSTLE TO DA VIK. 



Nno sickly, soiilinioiilal ^vIlilu^ 
Nor cynical comploonin', 

But ayo iift" luin', right honest words 
Thut hao an honest lueanin'. 

Lano- may yo live to court the muso, 

An' may she no'or desert yo ; 
May sorrow iio'or yuro inglo blii;-ht, 

An' poverty ne'er hurt }'©; 
An' hoping suno that you an' I 

May chance to meet thegither, 
I sign mysel' for weal or woo, 

Yure loving frieu' an' brither. 
Four Kent, Maine. 



MY FIRST COURTSHIP 



MY FIRST COURTSHIP. 

Who seeks to drown the heart's first love 

Will find it harder, even, 
Than that old task, in Palestine, 

To stone the truth from Stephen. 

For dross, which I may never need, 

With songs, which none should sing or -write, 

Through lunacy I have agreed 

To come and make you laugh to-night. 

The bond is signed, and stamped and sealed, 

And I must execute the job, 
Though every smile that you ma}' yield 

Has cost my bleeding heart a throb. 



POEMS B Y DA VID BARKER. 

For, ah, my mortal brothers, 
The misery that thrives in mo 
They take to some distillery, 

And make it joy for others. 

1 come here with the tongue of rhjnnc, 

' To tell you for your pelf, 
What each of you may know and feel, 
But cannot tell yourself. 

I come to make your hearts elate, 
And drain your eyes of tears, 

And all beneath the sagging weight 
Of more than fifty years. 

But then, my friends, I deem it meet 
To tell you plain, to make you laugh, 

I've now and then a grain of wheat 
Mixed with a mighty lot of chaff. 

My reason for the scrimp is this : — 
Some stomachs hold a frightful heap, 

And 'twill not pay to fill them uj), 
Unless the food comes mighty cheap. 



POEMS D Y DA VI D BARKER. 

Besides, whene'er I read my rliymes, 
And keenlj- look mj jiudienec o'er, 

I always sec (or find at times)' 

Among my crowd one fool or more. 

The conscientious, brainless man 
Puts out his scrip for real chatf, 

And 'twere gross A'aud upon the fool 
Should I not try to make him laugh. 

But as the thing looks here to-night, 
(I state the fact 'twixt 3'ou and me) 

If laughing is confined to fools, 
Then fools have the majority. 

I like the blessed law of change. 

And so, to-night, I change 1113^ rules. 

And every one who will not laugh, 
I enter on m^^ list of fools. 

Each mortal has a two-fold form. 
Distinct as saint and sinner, — 

One is the outer form, you see. 
The other is the inner. 



POEMS B Y DA VID BARKER. 

I shall speak words to many a soul, 

Who, coming- out to hear me, 
Would like to use, at many a point, 

His outer form to clieer me. 

It may not do — convention's codes 

Stand grimly to deride one. 
So cheer me with your inner form, 

If not with the outside one. 

Through all the pestering scenes of life 
Each brother has liis special need, 

Some need religion — some a wife — 
A dog, or a velocipede — 

And many on this earthly ball, 

To keep them straight should have them all. 

My Muse knows no partiality — 
But sends her notes, so thi-illing. 

For satin, broadcloth, and for silk. 
And also for blue drilling. 

I have seen flirting oft afar 
In Tuilleries and Boulevard ; 



POEMS BY DAVIT) BARKER. 

I have seen courting going on 

Up in the Scottish highlands, 
In Celtic hut, and Switzer's cot, 

And in the sea-girt ishxnds; 

But know not what true love may be, 
AYhen dosed and dabbled out among 
The numerous \^ives of Brigham Young, 

Or peddled out to two or three. 

I cannot talk to you in Avords 

AVhich 3'ou can full}' understand, 
Who, born with gold spoons 'tween the li^^s, 

Or some proud scepter in the hand, 
And never felt Fate's grabs and gi'ips; 
But you, Avho born, as I was born. 

In modern or in earlier times. 
With sand and hay-seed in your hair, 
And grew, like Topsy, without care — 

I sing to you in these odd rhj-mes. 

When, for the first time in your life, 
You dieam of those strange words, a wife, 
And from your mother's cupboard go, 
And the first time in earnest throw, 



/>()/.. U.s- liY VAnO HAliKKli. 

In kind of bsi^htiil, loisniv haste. 

Your i^ivon nrn\ 'round n utoou !'iiT>i waist. 

It", liko tho niarinor, whou (ossod 

On Avavo, with ohart and omnpass K)st,' 

"Who trusts his hohn. when tonipost drivon. 

To tho old dippor star in hoavon ; 

S1k\ in hor now and girlish bliss, 

AVill trust your first raw. oountrv kiss, 

Tlion look as happy "s tiu>Ui;h sho know 

Sho'd ii'Ot ono hard wook's washin>;- throuuh 

And it" it u'ivos your norvos a twist. 

And sonds a prioklini;' thrvniiih tho wrist. 

Muoh liko a tank upon tho pi>i!it 

Or apo\ o[' your olhow Joint, 

Brings from your stonuioh long-drawn sighs 

An<l pun\ps u{> wator through iho oyos, — 

'Thon hot that you aro l>o!li in lovo. 

And that tho niatoh was niado abovo ; 

That you and sho, througli snulos and loars. 

Will livo anil lovo thr<uigh lilo's long yoars,- 

Sho turning with hor woaltli of soid. 

As turns tho noodlo to tho polo ; 

Thon olinging tlirough your riso and tall. 

As clings tho ivy to tho w»»ll, — 

Unless some tanoy, ourl-hairod top 



I'OKMH liY DAVID liAUKIUl. 



\Va'l<H ill, jin'l hroulcH Jovc'h crockery up, 
Tlijil, tiling wu.s done, aH you hIiuII hcc, 
J{<lvvixt Alr/iiru Grunt and rnc. 

Y<;H, 1 Jiavo lovc<J like otJier folks, 

Who've Ijr-rii to InHtitutiofiH, 
'I'hoijfi;!) love, like whiskey, different workn 

On different conntitutionH. 

i\ jnan may hiindly love for yearn, 
Without his neighhorH knowing it, 

Ah one niay ow»i the rarest gem. 
And hot. 1i(r ;ilvv;i\ s rliouirif il. 

'Twa.H at, a e'Oiinliy ))a)'iiig hee 

r met the fair Almira, — 
I /eekon from that hleMscd day 
'As Ac;.!.-, fVoii. 11, •..-;,■.. 

J waited o;i hei' ho/»ie tliat night, 
And Kfjent the coming day with her, 

And fixed my niouth a thousand timcf* 
'J'o a-ik if J might stay v/itfi her, 

\'\\h\\ my chair I |;layed ohj recl,s, 
I>y di-unimin'j- uilh my linir'-rx. 



10 



POEMS I:Y DAVID JLIRKKR. 

And Iblt, no doulu, as darkness fools 
AVhicli round (ho dayli<^-ht lingers. 

Wc both wore verdant as I lie blade 
or ^^rass in summer weather; 

l>iit (hen mediought that we were made 
To ripen off together. 

Sonic bards would make her free from sin 
And say that angels chased her, 

To feast their eyes u[)on her skin, 
AVhieh shamed jnire alabaster, — 

Anil paint her graeeful, swan-like neck — 
llor flowing auburn tresses — 

Her Chinese feet, and arching back — 
Her Aidenn-born caresses: 

Her laughing eyes and sunny cheek, 
llor breadi so pure, and balmy, 

Her pearly (ee(h, eree( and trained. 
Like soldiers for (he arnty. 

In building roads or telling yarns 
I'm death against this crooking, — 



I'OEMS IIY l>.l\ II) IIAUKKJI. 



11 



1 only s:iy (hut slic was iiiorn 
'riiaii (Ic'ceiitly i:;<)()(l looking-. 

Slic c'laiiiUMl IK, 1.1(,(,(1 IVoin royal Ibols— 

Her lallK!!' was a yi'oinaii, 
Who owned liis ftu-;ii and running lools, — 

Ilt'i- mother was a woman. 

* 

One thino- can tndhrully he suid, 

Ahnira would not crawl (Vom hed, 

And sit two hours a yawniniz;; 
She seldom slo])|,ed and nevei- shjshed, 
Her hack hair cond>ed and fuce she washed, 
And then the darlino- u-ir], heside, 
AVould always have her shoe strings tied 

The first thinn- in the mornimr. 



Whene'er she stood, Almira looked 

Straight as a gun Crom end to end; 
She was not twisted, war])ed noi- erook'd, 

By what they call the (Irecian hend. 
]\Iy neiglihor's girl — IMacenla Ladd— 
That C;recian hend, she hud it hud, 
She caught it down at Saratogiu'. 
l''i'(;m one wIk^ had a ((»reign hroguc. 



12 



POEMS BY DAVID JiAllKKli. 

In gazing on some lovely form, 

liight from the hand of Nature warm, 

Although your love be siz/Hng hot, 

The fear of fist or pistol shot 

From lover, fatlier, or from brother. 

Or swinging broomstiek from the mother. 

May silence you from Avinking 
Too often at the luscious dear, 
But, thank the Lord, one thing is ch^ar: — 
Our courts have not decided yet 
A lovesick fellow cannot sit • 

Stock still and kerj) a- Ihiiddng. 

In those old times if we should court 
Two girls of Jones' or Ililliard's, 

Who weighed one hundred sixty })ounds, 
Each, by her father's steelyards. 

One thing is sure as time and tide, 
Tliat we were safe in betting, 

'T was solid girl, and nothing else, 
That you and I wero getting. 

Eiit now the flame you're "fluking" with 
Perhaps is mostly.'' boiighten," 



rOKMS n Y DA VIl) liAIlKElt. J g 

Made up in part of rubber goods, 
And part of cork and cotton. 

Those peeping mole hills 'ncath her chin, 

To craze some frail beholder, 
Perhaps are gutta pcrcha l»alls 

A peddling Jew has sold hei-. 

And ten to one, the bridal night 

May prove your festive charmer 
Has nought but artificial legs — 

Those patent legs by Palmer. 

And slie, whom paste l-as made as fair 

As Whittier's Maud Muller, 
May prove by touch of Castile soap 

Quite of a diffci'cnt color. 

Tiie girls we picked in days of yore. 

Before Ave had (o choose 'em, 
We peaked to notice if the}- wore 

Crash towels in the bosom. 

I care not what another saj'S — 
As woman rigs up now-a-days, 



14 



I'Ol■:^fs II y n.ijin i!a1!i<:/:r. 

IL imuldloH up your head 
To know which part to i-all your wil'o — 
The real partner of your lile — 
The part Ihal slie takes otV at ni^-lit, 
By gas, or lamp, or eandle li;;"Iit, 

Or the i)art that- "-oes to beck 

What shall l>e done, cries every one, 
Kroni priesi to the wood-sawyer, — 

1 give advice, not as a saint. 
But give it as a hiwyei-: — 

\ 

Have fitith thill (til is (jt)uiinc; 

Hill ere tl>e anxious loN'er 
Invests his all in Inncy stocks, 

Jle\l hetter k)ok tlieni over. 

Some things the old t'olks seemed to prize 

Above her being lair: 
ITer mother told mc thai her j-irl 

Was rugged as ;i bear. 

And then the okl man bragged, that she 
Was built just like her mother; 



I'OICMS liY DAVID llAUKKll. i r 



WuH just as limber jis an ccl, 
And just as tou^h as leather. 

lie l)ra,i;>;-i>(l, that she was liard as horn, 

And .slie eould stand the liardest knoelch 
And never yet Iiad lost a meal 
But onec, when slu; and iluldah Neil 
Took cold one ni^-lft in huskino- eorn — 
That Full, I hey ha<l I he chicken-pox. 

When nicked l.y |,ain :tiid howed |.y care, 

Jjike most of ns at present, 
I Ihiid.' each stricken heart should feel 
That "toun-h and riio-i;'ed as a hear," 
And "just as lindx-r as an eel," 

Are phrases rather pleasant. 

A healthy soul we all shoidd pri/,e, 
But then 'tis douhtfid whether 

You well can run a ruL':,ii;ed soul 
And feehl(! foi-m together. 

if sold oi' hody ^n-ts tlu! pole, 

l^lacdi makes bad time forever, 
Tbo same as Bonner's horse of ftimc — 



16 



POHMS BY IJAVIU BAliKElt. 

I think that Dexter is his name — 
The same jierchance, or even worse, 
If geared, when trotting on the course. 
Beside a yearling heifer. 

Our cliancc for courting was not big, 

I and my fair Almira ; 
Upon that niglit I reckon from 

As Arabs from Jlcgira. 

One side the room the old i'olks slept — 

Her father and her mother — 
The swifts, wheel, loom, and war];ing-bars 

AVere standing in the other. 

The tom-cat and a cosset lamb 

Were in one corner lying, 
AVhile o'er our heads the pum])kin hung. 

My darling had been drying. 

Above the belching back-logs, lain, 

The pig's and turkey victual 
Was sweating on the iron crane, 

AVithin a five-pail kettle. 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

The cross-cut saw which novoi- run, 
Excejit throu^^h stolen timber, 

Stood grinniiio- with its hhinted teeth. 
Until its back ^n-cw limber. 

The linen wheel, which whirred and suno- 
J3y light from pitch-knots kindle. 

Thrust out its homespun flaxen tongue 
From distaff to the spindle. 

The sweeting-keg laj^ on the floor, 
The "lobbing" dish layby it; — 

Those things they used when callers came, 
To keep their young ones quiet. 

Mid all inventions since those 3'cars, 

Oh deem it not surprising, 
That we must use some sweetning kegs 

To keep our folks from rising. 

A rundlet, filled with Shubacl's rum. 

Which made him oft a noodle. 
Was horsed beside his tenor drum, 
On which, Avhen Elder Hatch was there, 
He played some old John Bunyan air; 



17 



18 



POEMS B Y DA VI D liAJlKEli. 

But Avhoii tlio Elder whirled his gig', 
And Shul>:iel took an exlni swig. 
Ho di-o])])t'd lliose airs iVom s[)irit lauds, 
And Avilh liis Utile horn-beam hands. 
First, pitehed into the Chorus ,lig, 
Then Hosrd on Yankee Doodle! 

Three hoys were in a (ruudle-hed — 

One kicking with the I'oUc; 
Three girls, down through the knoL-holc Hour, 

Were pooping — full of iVolic. 

The old dog, witii his glaring eyes, 
Ijay on the hearth-stcuie near us, 

As it' to wutcli my girl and mo. 
Like the liihled dog, Corhorus. 

Their library, on the nninteI-i)ieeo, 

Was of a rare seloetion — 
They had all of the standard works, 

And hu|. (Mio woi-k of tielit)n : 

The Bible, Ihmyan, Watts' .Uymiis, 
AVhieh taught both me and you so — 

Tho reader, speller, grannnarbook, 
Arithmetic and Crusoe. 



POEMS n Y DA riD II A liKEJi. 

Onint HjiicI lie always lived by pUm, 
For, on one elicir a])point(Ml, 

Thoro smoked (ho Hul|.liar i,, ihv, pun, 
From vvliich tin. childn.., oinlod. 

One pic(Mi-e, on i\w. nioss-ehinked wall, 

>Slie had or Husan Taink-r, 
Would knock old Miehael An-cio, 

Or any niodei'n j^ainler. 

It looked some likoiilrjVhLened hidl 

IliUdied to a porter M'agon ; 
»Sho said that Susan painted it 
For Michael and the Dragon ! 

Thoold/lintgun— J«eejtslill— 
That queen's-arm used at JJiinker's hill 

]}y hei- great-grandsir Lowder, 
Liiy calmly in the hooks at rest, 
But kej.t within its iron bi-east 

One chai-ge of shot and ponder. 

Those days I never would forget, 
Till death my heart-strings sever: 



20 



POEMS B Y DA VI D BABKEB. 

Your modern style of etiquette 
Was then in fashion, never. 

If mothers wished you not to stop 
To court a blushing daughter, 

'Twas one blow with the handle mop, 
Or else some boiling water ! 

Ye need na piles of worldly gear, 
Nor large amount of college lear, 
By kintra wit and judgment clear, 

'Twill quick be found 
If the auld mithcr of the dear 

Don't want ye round. 

In writing rhymes, oh, what a band 
Aft throng me frae the ithcr land, 
And a' in circling hurdles stand. 

Though aft unseen — 
That was Eob Burns' spirit hand 

On my machine. 

Her mother, ere she went to bed — 

God bless the dear, old homespun saint 
The round pine kitchen table spread 



POEMS BY DA FID BARKER. 

"With honey recking from the bees, 

"With nut-cakes and some pigs'-foot cheese, 

In case the girl or I was faint. 
I see that table standing there — 
With toj) turned up it made a chair — 
To give us one warm luncheon then, 
(A theme fit for a seraph's pen) 
Brought baked befins from the eartlien pot, 
An Indian loaf all piping hot — 

Whose worth the world has proven; 
Whose inspirations oft I feel — 
All reddening for the morning meal — 

Inside the old mud oven. 

Then from the scriptures read a psalm, 
A nd prayed to Israel's God above, 

To keep their darling girl from harm. 
And shield her in his arms of love. 

Oh, had that mother's prayer been heard, 
No fitful toucli from memory's breeze 

Some string upon my liarp had stirred, 
To bellow out such strains as these. 

I, as the son-in-law of Grant, 

Had never caught the crazy whim. 



21 



22 P0E3IS BY DA VID DARKER. 

To spend my hours in idle rant, 

And write these coming lines on him. 

It may seem wrong — this bundling up — 
This mixing in the self-same cup 

Life's awful facts with fic;tion ; 
It makes a mixture and a twist, 
Like playing one short game of whist 

'Tween prayer and benediction. 
But then, what can a fellow do 
When love has loosened niany a screw. 
And warped and wrenched, as inay bo scon, 
The gearing of his song-machine? 
I'll do but this — to gain your pelf, 
I'll let the old gear run itself. 

LINES ON SIIUBAEL, THE FATHER OF MY INTENDED. 

Old Shubacl Grant then bragged an hour 
Of over}^ thing on earth he knew, 
And all he ever dreamed of, too, 

How he had licked big Abel Tower, 
And knocked an eye aifd wisdom tooth 
Square down the throat of Orlan Booth ; 

IIow on one leg he used to stand, 
And box an hour with Eufiis Carn ; 

And with an axe and flask in hand, 



POEMS BY DAVfD liAUKHR. 

llad run the ridge-polo of a barn ; 
And how be always liked the fun 

Of knocking bats with long-leg Banks, 
And how they danced from sun to sun 

At the la.st juiister on the planks; 
ITow, after daric, liis old Mind horse, 

AVith hcavcH and lanio in every foot, 
lie liidce<l on old /ehiai Morse, 

And got a shout and drink to boot; 
IFow, when they raised the Libby mill, 
He "rasseled" twice with Albert Hill, 
And whiKl a "most Jehovah Jlip" 
He got from Albert's swinging trip; 
l\\\i then I'or business^ uoi Jor i'lm, 
Jle tried the old jjalf-huthxdc oJi — 
When (juiek i"ro7n science, not from strength, 
He stretched old Albert twice his length; 
How once a number twelvo ho Avorc — 

Although his feet wei'o small as mine — 
To make them think 'twas neighbor Mooro 

Who plundered cedar o'er the lino. 
With iron heols and bi-ads before, 
The tracks resembled neighbor Mooro. 
And how ho marketed his hay, 

Not when the skies were bri<--ht and warm. 



23 



24 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

But alwaj'S on a loweiy day, 

And often through a driving storm, — 
Tliat half a ton, loss tare and tret. 
Was just twelve hundred when 'twas wet; 
And what a joke he played on Howes — 

You know that Howes, that old blind Leni- 
He milked two teats of both his cows. 

One season when he pastured them ; 
How good the Lord had been to him, 

For he had always had, through life, 
A blessed rousing appetite, 

A.rugged and a praying wife — 
A wife who never had been slim — 

No "rheumatiz" or dizzy spell. 
Their victuals always sat so well 

That they could eat, by day or night. 

Most any thing that they could bite ; 
And how he wiggled Ephraim Kidd, 

By making talk as fine as silk. 
For, man}'- a year ago, somehow. 
Ho learned one lesson from his cow — • 
She always kept her garget hid, 

Until she showed it in her milk. 
Though 'gainst the rules of fighting rings, 

He said he alwaj^s felt 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

'Twas well, sometimes, to vary things, 

And strike below the belt ; 
Am\ how, at Glover's nine-pin hall, 

lie found one day in bowling. 
There was as niueh in keeping slate himself. 

Or more, than there was in rolling. 

How in the play, wjiate'er the name. 

One sacred rule he makes, 
To end disputes about the game 

He alwa^'s grabs the stakes. 

Though he had strongest 15ibk^ faith, 
One thing he shouldn't try on — 

He ne'er should try that Bible game 
Q^o cam]) down with the lion ; 

For somehow he had always felt, 
Before they got through kissing. 

Or got through with the play of lamb, 
The lamb would come up missing. 

And how he alwaj^s took his swigs 

In the old brown-earthen cup ; 
For one, he always meant to stick 

Right square to his bringing up ; 



26 



POIC.US BY DAVID liAllKEn. 

And how it mado him "cussed riled" 

To have it hinged by others, 
Alllioiii;-li l>is iiaino was Shubael iJrant, 

llis fatlier's name was Ijoalliers; 

And liow at I'lillen's i)iliiii!; bee 

Jle wliacked and wlielted Simon Spear, 

And warmed tlie Avax within his ear — 

Yes, l)r()wsod him like a Saxon, 
For speaking disrespeelfullj' 

Of God and Andrew Jaekson. 

Then si])pe(l— (hen loM his i;-ii-l :ind me, 
J low many ai year ai^o, (lia( lie 
Onee stayed one nio-ht \\\{\\ Uuldali ^Minvh, 
The very day she joined (he chureh 

And worked for (■a[)lain Brown, 
And how she had the smoolhesl, skin 

Of any ijjirl in town. 

And how there was no woman horn, 
Not e'en (he wile of KMer Ayer, 

Could hold a oandle-stiek to ids 
In exhortation or in prayer. 



I'O/CAfS II Y DAVID nARKKIi. 27 

llow many a kickin<<; colt he'd broke; 
J low many a i^uir uiid many a yoko 

Of Idckiii/j;, liookiiii;-, siillty HtccrH ; 
Then took Homo worm-wood for luH coug-li, 
Then ])iillcd his shocH and stockingB off, 

And cut liis toi^ nails with the; sluiars; 
Then told mo that he always waked 

From any little itoise oi- sound, 
Hut wanted me to feel at home — 

I'.ut ho|)e(l I woiddn'l "hiiTUp 'I'ound." 
Then put on airs and most polite, 
He bade the "-irl and me good ni.n-ht. 

({rant eoidd not talk a woivl oC Crec^k, 

And yet, from what I've heard them say, 

He'd steal more hoop-poles in a day 

Than llev(^i-end Doctor (Jarlos l>ond, 

Or Icarn'd ProfcHsor Enoch Pond 
Could steal in cuttin<>- all thc^ week. 
' Before Ave close earth's douhd'ul strife, 
Or end this si)Icnidid fuss of life — 
When fame and wc^alth and heallh have (led, 
And friends lo lean upon are dead — 
Yc8, when we're growing old and poor, 
And hear the wolf around our door, — 



28 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

But lioop-poles in the market sell, 

It may be well, plain truth to speak, 
If honestly, it may be well 

To mix some hoop-poles with our Greek. 

But after all, 'twixt you and mo, 

'Tis hard to tell you which is 
The toughest load for mortals here — • 
The pinching load of poverty, 

Or galling load of riches. 

For I have over dreamed this dream : 
A hand, veiled out from human sight, 

To meet our false weights on the beam, 
Will fix the passive scales aright. 

And each will find, throughout the strife — 

Though fed from lean or fat ox — 
Upon this battle-field of life. 

Bull Eun and Appomattox. 

Have you over yet felt as once I have felt, 

AVhat a Avorld's wealth and glory are worth ? 
With an earthquake beneath, when around mo they knelt, 
With my fiiith, that was clear in my youth, blotted out 



POEMS BY DA VJD BARKER. 



29 



By a touch from the hand of the demon of Doubt, 
When from pale mortal lips there ascended the cry- 
To a Power, dwx'lling up, as they said, in the sky; 
When the summits were ripped from the mountains afar, 
With the flames shooting out from their seams, like a star. 
And strange muttcrings came from the upheaving dell, 
Like the rumblings that come from the bowels of hell. 
And when, full on the*ear, fell the sickening sound, 
And we felt, as we hugged, like a child, to the ground, 

The uplift and the swing of the earth ? 
Since then I have dreamed, though 1 cannot tell why, 
Of a Power in the spheres that is greater than I. 

The fruits that grow from deeds of ill. 

Somehow, have ever brought to mind 
That old and crazy cog-wheel mill, 

Where old John Buzzell used to grind. 



Each for his grist must take his turn — 

Each form that shields a deathless soul— 
And one tough lesson he must learn : 
That though he curse, or though ho pray. 
While Justice grinds he takes his pay, 
To the last kernel of the toll. 



30 



POEMS BY DA FID BARKER. 

Grant was an awful Democrat — 

To prove his hate of Whigs, 'tis said 

lie voted for Old Jackson once, 
Long after that okl saint was dead. 

He was a rigid Baptist, too ; 

One day he cursed okl Elder Pease, 
The leader of the bolting crew, 

For preaching 'gainst Divine decrees. 

The Baptists held their meetings there, 
And Shubael's only charge for rents 

Was just the swigs he stole at prayer, 
From wines they brought for sacraments. 

Grant was an office-seeker — some — 

He spared no pains — and spared no plan- 
One year he paid a pint of rum 
To be elected tythingman. 

He stood against Elkunah Brown — 
And, though the office didn't pay. 

He swore he'd stop their strolling 'round 
Upon the hoi}' Sabbath day. 



POEMS BY DAVID BAIiKER. 

And then he struck for power and place ; 

All! how his cousins rent the air 
The time he run with Uncle Muce, 

And bent him us hiy;h\vuy surveyor. 

This second ofKco paid him best ; 

lie worked the taxes in his bills 
Upon a fell-piece th&,t he cleared : — 

You knew that "cut-down" little west, 
And little east of Henry Hill's. 

Sometimes I fear that, now-a-days. 

Our men of i)lace have found the tracks 

Into the cut-down where old Grant 

Worked out his neighbors' highway tax. 

Old Shubael said he always prized 
The privilege of being found 
Upon the blessed, holy ground 

"Where converts Avent to be baptized. 

Old Shubael was, one out of ten. 
One of your handy kind of men — 
For Shubael often stood or sat. 
And held the convert's coat and hat ; 



31 



32 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

Grant said that he could always tell 
When j)ious folks were feeling well — 
Then was a bully time, he said, 
To show his spavined quadruped. 
lie said, in talking up a horse, 

No matter if he swapped or sold him. 
The man of prayer and strongest faith 

Was apt to suck down what he told him. 

Some traits I liked of Shubael Grant's, 
lie played well on his drum and fife. 

And, though he wore blue drilling pants, 
Was true and clever to his wife. 

And, though he had a rattle head. 
At things Divine he Avouldn't scoff. 

And, though he went half choked, 'tis said, 
He never took his well-crank off. 

lie never changed nor flopped about, 
And nov7, wherever Grant may be, 

In any world I have no doubt, 
lie writes God with a little g; 

And thinks as he did here in Maine, — 
He goes against each liquor law; — 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

He has no "nigger on tlie brain," 
And always takes his whiskey raw. 

If in the roaring pit, beneath, 
He'll fight, in lava to the knees, 

Each sulphurous imp, who dares to breathe 
One word against Divine decrees! 

That blessed Avheat, mixed in with tares, 
The pious motlier's humble prayers, 

And love you harbor for her daughter, 
You know will often make you stand 
More lies, and brags, and drunks, and cheats, 

From the old father than you ought to. 
And so, through prayers and rum and all, 
I toughed it out at Grant's that Fall. 

When Grant retired, so nearly nude, 

I felt upon my cheek a tear — 
A blessed tear of gratitude ; 

It was not that the coast was clear, 

But ah, I felt 'twas plain to see, 

That Shubael Grant had faith in me. 

He knew I was not shuling 'round, 

Like Eufus York, that long-haired curse, 

3 



33 



34 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

Who came that way and mended clocks, 

And fooled and ruined Maiy Burse. 
Poor Mary, and hci- mother, too, 

One night to Crowell's meadow came — 
Poor Widow Burse to drown her grief, 

And Mary Burse to drown her shame. 
When Mary and the Widow Burse, 

You know, within that brook were found, 
And the crazed people thundered in 

From half a dozen miles around ; — 
How some the folks would stand and cry, 

While gazing on their dripping locks, 
And some pile curses mountain high 

Around the Avretch who mended clocks ; 
I love to hear a people pray — 

Then love to hear that people curse, 
If they will swear, as on that day, 

While standing 'round poor Mary Burse. 
! But these my heart cannot approve, 

Whose pulses throb but one desire — 
Whose eyes with measured winks will move, 
And have the same look when they love — 

As when a building is on fire. 

But what has this poetic rant 
To do with courting 'Mira Grant? 



POEMS B Y DA FID BARKER. 

I said, that Shubacl Grant believed — 
And Slmbael Grant was not deceived — 
That I Inid oonie, from mother's, bound 

For good and not for evil. 
For, in live minutes, Shubtiel Grant 
Turned over once, and took a cant 
Upon sleep's inclined plane, it seems, 
Which sluiced him to the land of dreams, 

While snoring like the devil. 
Then Shubael's rest seemed sweet and deep, 
Much like some certain lawyer's sleep — 
For, though the bed is scrimped or wide. 
Some law3'ers lie on either side. 

There's nothing for the realms of rhj^jne 

In future can occur. 
To make me feel as, on that time, 

I sidled up to her. 

I told my feelings square, if brusk — 

My talk seemed to amaze her ; 
Her heart beat so it broke her busk. 

Carved M'ith her father's razor. 

But, after I'd exj^laiued awhile, 
xVnd o-ot her more enli<>-htcned, 



35 



36 



POEMS BY DA VID BAItKER. 

She seemed to act like other girls, 
More natural and less frightened. 

For then she tied me up a wreath 
From flowers she had been culling — 

The hollyhock, and butter-cup, 
The sunflower, pink, and mullen. 

And then she sat and told how mean 
Jane Whitcomb cooks and washes, 

And how the ring-tailed, striped bugs 
Had eaten up their squashes. 

How Pcavey's cats had lapped their cream, 
For yesterday she caught 'em ; 

And how she drove the measles out, 
And when and where she got 'em. 

This was long before Jane Peaslio 

Had that whooping cough ; 
Long before her uncle Cja-us 

Made that yoke and trough — 
Or New England rum Avas slandered 

By the lijis of Gough ; 
Long before I fought my battle, 



POEMS BY DA VI D BARK Eli. g »7 

'Mid Plebeian throngs ; 
Long before I caught this rattle 

From John Whitticr's songs : 
'Ho, fishermen, of Marblehead, 

Ho, Lynn cordwainers, leave your leather, 
And wear the yoke in kindness made, 

And clank your needful chains together." 

Now let mo stop and say one verse, 

I think is rather rich and mellow, 
I've written better — written worse — 

Though this was made by one Longfellow ; 
He wrote it at his old abode — 

I understand he lives there still. 
Near Guppy's, on the old cross road, 

A nearer cut to Bunker's Hill : 
"The heights by great men reached and kept, 

Were not attained by sudden flight, . 
Rut they, while their companions slept, 

Were toiling upward in the night." 

In singing of the great man's climb, 

Longfellow's words were plain and true ; 

The only doubt around his rhyme, 
Is whether he meant me or yon. 



88 



rOKMS IIY DA VI J) JiAltKEli. 

Now hack to in}- Almir.i (Ji'iiul : 

Tlicso t;ui_i;'eii( strides will prove my ruin; 
I wander otV ami scoot and rant 

As r>yron did in his Hon Juan. 
She told nie how Li/.e Leathers walkotl, 

Or how she minced and wiggled, 
And ta-ied to tell me st)mething olso, 

Jiut grahhed her nose and giggled. 
How lit^so ]\l.atilda> Colo hud gH)t 

lied oars of corn at huskings ; 
Alow (ii'ace Koziah llodge had knit 

Jako llassoltino some huskins. 
Then, with a mild and rcvoront air, 

She {o\y\ how iMary l^'aton 
Was just haptizod, by I'^kler Toaso, 

And how she spoko in mooting; 

How all the converts in the town, 
" Brought out" at Oeaeon Ilorton'8, 

AVould meet and tell expei-iencos 
At the big barn of Kortcurs. 

To build the towering church and spire, 
God'8 people, Mere lu^t able, 

And BO, to hoar their humble ]irayer. 

The Ijord would meet them an^■\vhovo — 



rOKAfS liY DAVU) nAIlKEIt. 

Ill kilclicii, i;-r<)vc, or stiiblo. 
\\\\\\ :ill I lie slaiiis upon my soul, 

Wliicli yciirs ()(' Hill liiivii l)r()ii)j;li(, \\\v^ 
J loiillMi I lie rciuali' (<)n,i;-ii(> that, scoils 

The, railli my inolJicr la-ii,L;-lii mo: 
A failli lliai Idls (<. wrary I'orms, 

And licarls with soiTow vivt-ii, 
or lioalin,-- halms 'f\\ (lilcad, 

And l>ctter liomes in licuvon. 
(Tlu'so hist two vofscs I luivc niudc, > 
;, So piouH ill (^xprosHioii, 
Ciimo I'roiu tlio heart, tlio' they may sccni 

Unpardonable dii^ression.) / 

You knew that IVoi.';-]»oiid near oiii- lioiisc, 

On the ohl iarni of mother's; 
'Twas near the present grassy road 

Which h'ads west from my l)rotlier's. 
8ome loiiy years a^i^o, or so, 

\Vheii thoro Avas fun in playing, 
AVt! hoys Avould meet and H])atter there, 

Maeh evening after liayiiig; 
With lit! hi shirts ari<l trowsers oil', 

AVe little liuman cattle. 
Would splash around and duek our heads, 

All ea<!'cr for a battle. 



39 



40 



POEMS JiY DAVID BARKER. 

I recollect (us iDlaiii as day) 

One little Tommy Dj^cr, 
Would always Avado in lo his kiiocs, 

But never wade in liii;-lier; 
But I, your poet, reeling- l»rave, 

And liner than a fiddle, 
Once waded in clear to my chin — 

A foot above my middh*. 
But making then a slip or trip, 

The fellows standing by me, 
All had to join and fi.sh me up, 

Then pump me out and dry me. 
So over after that, when one 
Would wish lo \va<U^ in just for fun, 
A piece of bed cord we had got 
We tied around him, with a knot, 
And held one end, when, in and in. 
The fellow waded to his chin. 
My love-sick brother, hear n\e tiu-ough, 
This sage advice I give to you : 
When, with some i'emale turtle-dove. 
You come to the frog-pond of love. 
Duck in and frolic as you please, 

But then, like Tommy I>yer, 
I wouldn't Avade in to (he knees; 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

But this strong resolution keep, 
Wiulo in, pei'luips, some ankle deep, 

But never wiide in higher. 
Until the hridtil knot is tied 
Within the bed-cord, 'round your side — 
For uh ! too late, it may !x- found, 

That fellow standing by you — 
Thtit cloven-footed TellovV 'round — 
May fish you u]) from oil' the gi'ound. 

Then pump you out and dry you. 

My Muse now takes another flop. 

This moment as she passes, 
With one remark, and simj>ly this: 
When courting, filled with rustic bliss. 

We're often like the long-legged boy. 
Who lived beneath the llermon hill — 
(I think his hat-band lives there still) 

AVho, in his hour of awful joy. 
Could not, for life, tell when to stop, 

Tlie time he lobbed molasses; 
When hogshead burst outside the door 
Which led to big (Jeorge Brackett's store 
80, on one beauteous Summer day, 
lie lobbed and lobbed himself away. 



41 



42 



rOEMS B Y DA VID DARKER. 

Metcmpsj^chosis may bo true : 

And in tlie future, dark and dim, 
I may lake on tl>e poodle dog, 

Or e'en one of the seraphim. 
If self mnst die, and change must come, 

HoAV ^vould my pulses thrill with joy, 
To know that I could bo transformed 

Into that long-legged Ilermon boy. 
Devoid of friction, care and ])aiii, 

No aspiration, nor a throb, 
Exce])t to lie, while Clod should reign. 

Around some bursting cask and lob. 

Now let n\o bounce back to that girl. 

So fair to each beholder, 
And skip awhile Avhat she told mo, 

But tell you Avhat T told her: 

I told her liow, that our steer calves, 
Wo swapped Avith Ivor}^ Nutter, 

Were having horns two inches long, 
And getting fat as butter ; 

IIov/ Chamberlain's sheep had owned her lami 
A fact which you and I know — 

By putting Boso into the pen 



POEMS BY DA VII) li AUK Ell. 

Beside the young Merino; — 
Not Chamberlain Avho, long moons ago* 

Sent Paugiis with a 3'ell and hound — 
That Lovell jiond, or red skin {00, 

Up to his ujiper Ininting-gronnd ; 
Not he— one J. L. Chamberlain, 
Who once was Governor of Maine, 
Wlioso name may die in after times, 
Unless I save him by these rhymes; 
Wliosc name 3'ou all may soon foi-get, 
Unless he asks a pardon yet. 
He, with the loyal many. 
For dealing out in that red fight, 

With sword, and grape, and shot and shell, 
On Little Hound-Top, through that night, 

That awful lurid dose of hell. 
To those, by man and God accursed, 
Turning the tide of treason first, 
AYay down in Pennsylvania. 
]^ut Chamberlain, whom you all well know, 
Who lived nor' west of Alfred Eowe, 
And sou'west of the Gilman hill, 
And cast of Eastman's cider mill — 
His girl, you know, they called her Beclc — 
You know that mole upon her neck — 



43 



44 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

She wears the same knit garters still, 
The bodice, with the skirt and frill, 
The cotton-pads and raccoon fur, 
When Abner Coburn courted her. 
Beck gave Jim Blaine the mitten once, 
Then took np with that perfect dunce, 
That long nose Roswell Griffin, 

Who came up from the Willard Bend 
The day that our new barn was raised, 
And drank new rum till nearly crazed. 
Then won a gill from Moses Shead, 
By standing longest on his head — 
And lifted short-legg'd Deacon Beals 
A dozen times, at the stiff heels — 

Threw me at the backs and the arms'-end ; 
But then I tried a different lug, 
And took him at the old side-hug, 
And whopped and laid him on his mug, 
In just a half a ''jiffin." 

This happy, short-legg'd Deacon Beals, 
That Eoswell lifted at stiff heels, 
Was not the long-faced Deacon Beals 
Who used to eat with us, and pray 
An average of once a day; 



POEMS B Y DA VI D BARKER. 

And always lectured mc on sin — 
I see it now, but didn't then ; . 

His praj^M-s and appetite were good, 
But then, to tell the honest facts. 

Although my folks were mighty poor. 
He never helped me cart manure, 
Nor never helped me grind my axe, 

Nor helj)ed me chop a stick of wood. 

In the last settlement above, 
Whatever crimes or faults they prove. 

Whatever else old Shubael lacks. 
One thing hie enemies will say. 
He was a good man in his day 

To break and SAvingle tlax ; 
And, with two swigs of cherry rum. 
Played nice tunes on his tenor drum. 
And this was more, 'twixt me and you, 
Than ever Deacon Beals could do. 

Eebecca Chamberlain, ere she wed. 
Had everything within her head ; 
For miles around, she know them all, 
By bonnet, overcoat, or shawl. 
And I was told by Widow Moore, 



45 



46 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

That Miss Eebecca Chambcrlaia knew 
The quantity and value, too, 

Of every rag of clothes you "woi'e. 
I think you knew poor Widow Moore? 

Though pure and holy, meek and mild, 
Like a caged maniac, she swore, 

The night she lost her only child. 
Sometimes a solace may be found 

To snatch and break the chastening rod, 
And clank your galling chains, though bound. 

Square iu the face and ear of God. 

One day she told me, and she cried, 
That winter that her husband died. 

She tended her own barn, 
And spun with her poor widowed hands 

Five hundred skeins of yavn. 
Ah! woman, in your gorgeous wealth. 

With false, perverted taste. 
Who drizzle out a vapid life. 

Mid frijipeiy and ])aste ; 
Come, I can teach you many a phrase, 

Yes, teach you how to spealc. 
Not only in my native tongue, 

But Latin, French, and (u'cek; 



I'OEMS BY DA VI D liAllKER. 

But cannot tell you what this means— 

SJic tended her own ham, 
And span with her 'poor widowed hands, 

Five hundred skeins of yarn. 

I told of Lot ]irowu's pilin<^-bco, 

The wrestle and the seuflle, 
The French four anit four-handed reel, 

The jig- und double-.sluitHe; 
And how we played " the needle's-eyc 

Which carries its tape so true, 
• It has caught many a smiling lass, 

Now^, lass, it has caught 3-ou." 
T told hci' how, at Captain Ware's, 
AV^e fixed a quilt across two chairs. 
Which Lydia i^ich and Uachaol Hart 
Had stood, or fixed, two feet apart — 
And how we got one Edward Fox — 
'Twas not your learn'd Judge Edward Fox- 
Hut he of the long and yellow locks, 
He of the sunburnt, dog-tail curls — 
To sot him down between those girls, 
A\'hen his true lover, (piick, perhap. 
Would come and sit upon his lap. 
One fact was kept from ^d., you know : 



47 



^Q POEMS BY DA VID DARKER. 

Tho ytiwniuo-, watery tub below. 
Altbough wo liad a world of fun 
Witb Edward Fox — tbo Baptist's son — 

Tbat single bour's diversion 
Sent Edward — son of Deacon Fox — 
Half over witb tbe orlbodox. 

Altbougb bis beart and bead Avere rigbt — 
Altbougb, in soul, a Baptist still, 
To gralif)' a stubborn will, 
Tbe lower balf of Edward Fox 

AVas ever, from tbat blessed nigbt, 
A rabid, blue-ligbt ortbodox, 

Or deatb against inunersion. 

I tbink 'twas after sbe bad gone 
And put anotber apron on, 
And tixed, like otber angel girls, 
Tbose darling little wafer curls, 
And booked new nubs or ear-rings in, 
Put on some otber beads and pin. 
Used eanioniile instead of nuisk. 
And slipped in sly anotber busk, 
And witb ber side-combs "primi>ed" ber bair; 
- I told my dear Almira tbere — 

Yes, spoke rigbt out — tbat sbe was sweet, 



POEMS BY DAVID liARKER. 

And near!}' good enoiigli to cat ; 
iShe changed so quick from white to red, 
It made a swiniming in ni)' head — 
Tlio doctors Cor a fee, you know, 
AVould call (hat swiinnung vertigo. 

Heaven only knows how we poor fools 
Have toiled and sweat, from day to day, 
To earn enough in pwrt to ]>ay 

For sucli old stuir they learn at schools. 

As felt some Grecian mother's son. 

Who horo one of the classic names, 
In boasting of a prize he won 

At those renowned Olj-inpian games — ■ 
I strutted with a peacock's air, 
And told my sweet Almira there, 
How I and Doll}" Peavcy ran — 

And how I ran the faster; 
When okl York's Durham roared and pawed, 

As we went thi-ough the pasture. 
I mind it well I tried to write 

Almira Grant a love-sick sonnet, 
And how my heart would throb that night, 

As thoutrh it had a stone-bruise on it. 



49 



5Q POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

The darts of love I bravely met, 
As Switzer Arnold Winkelried 
Eeceived the shafts within his breast, 
When by the Austi-ian squadron pi'esscd, 
While leading- tbroug-h the Al]:)ine fray 
His comrades on that glorious day. 
Young- Love and I played hide and seek, 

B}^ skulking 'round, then darting in 
The dimjiles on her rosy cheek 

And creases of her double chin. 

I told my dear Almira, there, 
Who looked so fleshy and so fair, 
(While sitting pretty near her chair) 
How Eoso Eoss thi-ew a ball of yarn 
Into the well behind the barn ; 

Then wound it with a fellow — 
How, one dark night, Eobena Eand 
Backed, with a looking-glass in liand, 

Into Joe Hooker's cellar — 
Not' old fighting Joseph Hooker, 

Who, above the clouds, 
In the loom of the red angel, 

Wove those dead men's shrouds; 
Marching through those l)listered regions. 



POEMS liY DAVID BARKER. 

Willi his blue and conquering legions, 

Bathing, as they trod, — 
Bathing, from Wai"'s purple fountain, 
The fevered brow of Look-Out Mountain, 

Half way up to God ; — 
And how we played old hide and seek; 

How Liz Jones: tried to find me. 
And how we used t» "shave her down," 
By one song sung by Nancy Brown — 
That blessed, sentimental song, 
AVhich my scarred heart remembers long, 

"The girl I left behind me." 
'Twas whistled, too, by Simon Phipps, 
Whose lummox, louse, and lumbering lips. 
We country boys, witii wallets thin. 
Had chartered for a violin. 
Now Simon's notes were not so full 
As those, perhaps, from Ole Bull, 
And then, perchance, had not the ring, 
Like that which foil from Mozart's string, 
And not like Paganini's strains, 
Which he would barter ofl' for gains; 
What Simon lacked in art sublinie 
He Avell nuidc up in lips and time : 
Sime learned his trade in Nature's shop. 



51 



52 



POEMS liY DAVID liAnKER. 



And whistled until hiivd to stop. 

Until my sun of lilo shall set, 

These ancient logs cun lu-'cr Ibi-i^ot 

Tho.se gay old dances u|) a( Drew's, 

WluMi girls Hocked in wilh eall'-sUin shoes, 

And never led the Uitehen floor, 

Till one good pair of taps (hey woiv ; 

They never danced the eye to i)lease — 

They knew no polka or schottisehe ; 

They used no niodern, mincing trips, 

As (hough light l.uekled 'roun.l their hips; 

I<]ac]» had a dozen leathern sti'aps, 

When on the boards with us old chaps; 

Our style was (his — we "stronged" it througli, 

jjed on hy my friend, llii-am Drew; — 

^■ou know old lliram Drew, of course, 

The man who raised (hat trotting horse; 

Like the mad waves we surged ahout, 
Through (he Mind wliirl of jig and reel, 
With nourish of (he toe and heel— 

Until one side was " tuckered"' out ; 
r>ut taking lu-c^alh and drying swea(, 
We formed on for another set. 



POEMS BY DAVID liARKER. 

That ancient music from the lips 
Of our liired wliistlcr, Simon Phipps, 
Was somewhat different, 1 sliould say, 
Fi'om that I heard but 3'e8tcrdaj, 
In Reverend Wooster Parker's church, 
(You see \\\y Muse has taivcn a lurch) 

There, one of the smooth haired fellows, 
I noticed that he looked so grand — 
Held that big- lever in his hand, 

And blew that organ bellows. 
Beside that girl Avho oft was si'cn 
To thump the keys on that machine, 
When tunes slid out so smooth and still, 
As grain slides from a winnowing mill. 

And then I bragged how Bose would tight, 

When Hi. Drew's dog would mad him. 
And how, like blazes, Bright would pull 

When Leather French Avould brad him. 
Old Leather French, whose hermit name 

From leathern garb was fitly given ; 
Whose fervent prayer, like incense came. 

Upon each wandering breeze of heaven— 
Who gave earth's favored lodgers room, 

My sleeping in a pauper's tomb. 



63 



54 



rOEMS BY DA VID BARKEB. 

All unlettered, unknown, unattended and poor, 
Both afoot and alone ho went down to a shore, 
VYith no weight at his heart, and no chafe, I ana told, 
With no chafe from the lugging of silver and gold ; 
With a gaze at a mount, in a summer-like land; 
With a seat by a form, with an oar in its hand ; 
On the tide and the wave he was quickly afloat, 
With no baggage to bother in the ferryman's boat. 
Whene'er I see a poor man kneel, 

And hear his fervent, humble prayer, 
Within my very heart I feel 

'Tis well that I am listening there. 
Although to me his aims are dim. 
That service may be much to him ; 
It tells of hopes beyond the screens — 

Of strugglings through a bitter strife, 
Of trustings to an Arm unseen — 

Of outlooks to a higher life ; 
Whatc'er my careless tongue may say, 
My heart says — "let the poor man pray." 

You see how oft m}^ Muse will turn, 
And meet you with a smile or frown j 

And imitate the old dash churn, 
That's either up or down. 



POEMS BY DA FID BARKER. 



55 



Say, what would you give for a look 

Through a book, 

Containing each word from the lips of a human, — 

In his billing and cooing, 

In his efforts at wooing 
The heart of a woman, 
Since Adam first plucked up the courage to lead on, 
And court that old girl in the garden of Eden ? 
"When ni}'- hurry is over, with a plenty of time, 
I am going to write such a volume iu rhyme. 

Though the record declares Adam took, as his bi'ide. 
Blushing Eve as she leaped from the rib in his side; 
But the facts being known — oh, I think, 'twould be found. 
That he courted her first when the Lord wasn't 'round. 
He's a fool who Avould marry an angel of light. 
Till he courted that angel at least for a night. 
There was sense in the speech of the boy, who, you know. 
Wouldn't work till he first got the hang of his hoe. 
Ah ! the first couple on the Eden ground — 

What a big time they must have had in wooing — 
No old folks standing tip-toe, " harking" 'round. 

Nor " peeking" in to see what they were doing; 
No foreign force to tempt them on to sin. 
For this was just before the snake came in. 



eg rOEMS B Y DA VID BARKER. 

And Adam, to secure his female treasure, 

Had the full swing around ahout in Asia ; 

And ere he dressed him in those fig-leaf pants, 

Had elbow room that I had not at Grant's ; 

One thing looks queer, that they could not relVain 

From hooking pears, and then from i-aising Cain. 

How oft T dreanunl thi'ongh my young brains, 
That 1 should lead in golden chains 

My blushing, fair Almira, 
As led that famed and warring man — 
The Em])eror Aurelian, 
When, meeting with success one day, 
He conquered proud Zenobia, 

The (^iieen of old Pahnyra, 

The old folks woke when I sung "Brave Wolfe," 

Then kept a hem and hawing, 
And then I let her "chaw" my gum, 

Which I had just been '-chawing." 
I felt it like old Bible proof— 

Her love was most divine — 
When buckling down, with cherry li])S, 

She sucked the gum from mine. 
But time has taught my cheated heart 



J'OICMH JiY DAI ID liAIlKEIi. 

To watch the smile and frown, 
And see if it is love or gum 

AViien woman buck'les down ; 
For woman is woman wherever you go, 
'Mid the jabbering hordes of the Esquimaux, 
Or 3'oiii' lettered tribes, where tlie jx'arly face 
Hhows tiic tint of the Angk) Saxon race. 
She snickered, and she chawed tlie gum, 

Wlien I liaiiK'd from my waist-coat. 
And phiycd my jewsharp I liad bought 

One day of ll(^uben Prescott. 
Now, Pi-escott, since he sold that harp. 

Much money has been clearing- 
While T s!op[)('d over into rhymes, 

lie went to auctioneering. 

"We then played two of those old games 

I learned of Esther Norris; 
She beat me bad at fox and geese, 

]5ut I beat her at morris. 
T told her ^ow our old gray mare 

Was getting lame and heavey ; 
'Twas one we had the Fall before 

Of dickering lieuben Seavey. 
Not Seavey — Maine's famed surgeon, now — 



53 POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

Not Ctilvin, I am sure — 
Who learned to cut off legs and heads 
Of the famed Scotch McEuer. 

She then brought on some ivy loaves, 

Just picked near Deacon Howse's — 
We sat and sat, and ate the best, 
And then we tilled up, with the rest, 
Both pockets of my trousers. 

While I was sitting by her side, 

And my new knife was showing — 
She told me how that Peter Eich 

With Dora Nutt was going. 
She showed mo her now calfskin shoes. 

Her work-bag, and her duster — 
Her vandj'ke and her green calash, 

Which she had bought for muster. 

Those calfskin shoes had turned up toes- 
She said, that one who knew her. 

Told her to wear those turned up toes, 
As they Avere more becoming to her. 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

Almira's wardrobe, or trousseau, 
Was not like l^iitler'ts girl's, you know — 
That riggini;- with those awCiil names, 
Bhmcho wore wheii marrying (iJeneral Amos. 

All trimmed their gowns, with poppy leaves, 
The girls we loved, in those old days — 

They wore no modern "angel sleeves," 
AVith smilax and japonioas. 

I had no extra clothes to show — 

No satinet nor shoddy ; 
But always hung all wardrobe then 

On my voluptuous body. 

The bull's-eye watch, her father clean 

Had made by horses swapping. 
To witness well the amorous scene. 

Would now and then keep stopping. 

Then hurraing up, with all its power, 
Laid — Avhih^ we both were fawning — 

Its brassy hands upon the hour 
Which told the birth of morning. 



59 



60 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

The rosy tints which fell ashint, 

And set the oust a<2;lo\ving, 
Toltl me, if not Alniini (irant, 

'Twus time that I was going. 

Outside the door, on that blest morn, 
When heaven's blue stars were beaming, 

Onr first, pure, rustic kiss was boiMi, 
AYhiie Shubael CJrant \i\y dreaming. 

In wending to my cottage home. 

The earth beneath and heavens above, 

And all the circling sidicres around, 

Besjioke and breathed of nought but love. 

Andromeda, I noticed then. 

From the northern hemisphere, 
Tjooked down and smiled, tho' chained behind 

Her mother, Cassiopea. 

When they, and all the laughing hosts, 

Along the starry trail, 
lleached out and tixed an extra kink 

In Ursa ]\Iajor's tail. 



POEMS liY DAVID BARKER. 



When twilight's sable curtain falls, 
Then stars stand thick at even, 

To act as outside sentinels 
Around the gates of heaven. 

That night, along the shimmering slant — 

I tell you true, my brother — 
The password was ^^ Almira Graiit" 

They whispered to each other. 

The northern lights so leaped and flashed, 

And shot their titful rays, 
I thought that "long John" Couillard's shop 

One moment was ablaze. 

And Boreas, bumming through the trees, 

Unshed uj:) its mournful sigh. 
And tried to laugh, lik'c Shubael Grant 

Each time he told a lie. 

I milked our cross, old lop horn cow — 

She never acted half so nice; 
She never broke her bow but once. 

And never kicked my pail but twice. 



61 



02 



rojCMs II y ii.ii ni ii.iichi:ii. 



H(<iuf(« lUni hoiii-, ih li.H.k .>■• U\r\i 

W.MlId H.II..W tip Ihr nli;.;l.(.'ll|, Mlir; 

I Ihiiik llio l<>v« MiMi liivd my |)i-.<i)Hl, 

Wroiiv'hl <Mir Uiiil, M.viM.'.l <'linn."'.> in li.^r. 



I''()|- rvcry U'urd iVoiii iiiiiii:iii lijiM, 
'VUo Iiiu-hIiohI, kiii.lcMl, ainl llir I.'jihI,, 

"Will iiiiiki^ i(H iiiipi't^HH, (|('(|i .'iikI l>i'(»a<l, 
U|M>n Ihc li.'arl, ol' inn ■ Ix^nxl.. 



And nul, our III. Ml;. hi- HW.M^IKi .)'.T |,||(^ H..I1I, 

'rii<iii;';li never liy ii Word ex |ireHM(>(|, 
nill, lliiii MHiiic li..\crin;'; n|.iril, round, 
TnuiHlrrM il- 1(1 !iii(»lli(<r'M lirciiiil. 

] And Mi.'iv, williiii ilM tuMMvl, d(.|>|,|in, 
/ S(. Milivly, Mlrinlily, Ihoiiidi no hIJI! • 

II l-.ilM llir..ii;d. ninny a \\<'Avy I •, 

And d.MM ilM work IWr ,..,mm| .,r ill. 



Ilnd I Ihin loii;di, old uorld lo nil.', 
My .•nun. .11, n\v..r.l nn.l n.nll.l 

.SI, ..III. I !..■ III.' .I.'nr ol.l .li;ilri.'Uudi....l, 
(;.h|'m j'.iM,', nn.l il..' hnlLd. 



POEMS n Y DA VID liARKER. 

If Bible, ballot, and the school, 

Should fail me all, in turn, then let 

Me have — instead of rabble rule — 
The educated bayonet. 

Amid the tumult and the Htrife, 
In weaving out our web of life. 
Although the task be light or hard. 
Whatever be tlie cost per yard — 

A doubloon or a shilling, 
Regardless of our prayer or ban, 
God furnishes the warp for man, 

J3ut man must find the filling. 

M}' Muse oft seeks some dizzy height, 
By giving one unearthly bound — 

Then, quick as thought, she loves to light, 
And sing her songs on level ground. 

Her folks, not mine, were well to live. 

And had a high position — 
Though bed-quilts hanging up, they used 

Instead of board partition. 



63 



g ,j. r OEMS B Y DA VI D BA RKEB. 

Wc had no boards to make two rooms, 

In hot or chilly weather, 
And quilts we used on little groups 

That snuggled down together. 

For mother's tear-stained widow's weeds 
To ton young hearts were telling, 

That lather could not toil for ua 
In the land where he was dwelling, 

To tell the honest truth, sometimes 
The}^ find these faults about m}' rhymes: 
They say I use the pronoun I 
Too often in my poctr^^, 

And given too much to Idowing; 
But then these facts you all should know- 
Two facts quite worth j^our knowing — 
That ])i-onoun / cannot be beat, 
Stand, speak it out as man}' times 
As I have used it in these rhymes, 
And every time how full and sweet 
Its echo strikes your eardiole drum, 
AVhich doctors call the tympanum. 
Again, when earthly force was tried. 
And man was humbled in his pride, 



l'<)EMS liY DA III) ItAUKEH. 

Vty ui'l ol' iiiiMccii n))ii'il, |K)\v(U' — 
»S(i(!li iiH i 1<m1 (liis \i.'vy hour — . 
'JMio Hlcni old \v!iIIh oC .]{'v'w\\<> 
Were l,())»|)l(ul «Hic,c l>y Mowiiif^! 

"PiH iiijiny Ji year h\\u-v. Ilic old lolkw, rm'iio, 

With ihi'iv iiiorliil oycH have Hccn iih, 
For Ihcir Hi<^ht ifrow dim ot» ii v/inlcr'H i\iiy, 
And (Jicy wniidciMtd od' jind Micy IohI, ih(iir wuy ; 
Jiiit they ])rcHH(Hl uloiiji^, though tlicy h;irdly knew 
Which way to turn or wliiit to do — 
For the ni^Mit emin^ on iin<i it fhilled iJicin tlirou^rh 
Jini J leiiri) from u friend, who liaH juHt come haelc, 
That they Htruclc at hi8t on a heaton trade, 
AVhi(d. led th(^ old ColkHHarrly o'er 
To a fairi^r wky and a l)etter nhoro, 

Tliouii;h a mint now hroodw botwoou U8. 
And my Ciicnd who ha.s brought these tidings o'or 
From tliat miidcu- ,sky and the better sbore, 
BringH a word from the old folks living there, 
Whore the lands are green and the skies are fair, 
We had better come, and we needn't fear. 
For the work isn't hard, as the work is hero. 
And they have a home which they own all clear — 
Not a mortgaged home as their home was hero — 

5 



65 



POKMS BY DAVID DARKER. 

V>\\1 ix lionio as i^ood :is :i homo need be, 
AVilli :i ])UMily ol' i-oom ibr (ho _i;-irl mid mo. 
Aiul (lioy sont mo word, as [\w\ ohanood to look 
Ono (hiy, in an old, woimi spirit hook, 
Wluoh (lio a.ii,i;-ols koop Cor tlio oatli and prayor — 
Thoy Ibiind Ihoso words wrillon oiii up llioro : 
'Tlioso oliains wliioh bind hor as Iho wil'o 

"To him within tlio lowt'r land, 
'Shall, by tho laws ol' sj.irit life, 

'• Pi'ovo only as a ropo ol" sand. 

'For, at'tor oarth's nvislakos aro past, 
"Each human, yoarnina;, unmatcdiod heart, 

'In some of (iod'w wide s))horos at- last- 
"Shall lind its own true oounloi'iiai'l." 

Thoy told mo, IVom those climes above, 
One boon sufvivos this mortal breath, 

For there the beauteous Ibi-m of love 

Finds entrance throii^-h tho gates of Death. 

1 have m}' child — a prattliui;- n'irl — 

One tie that binds nn> to my wife; 
With lauohin.;- eyes and i;-loss_v curl— 

A chi}) cut from my tree of life; 



POEMS liY DAVIU liAltKEIl. 

And loiin- 1,,'l'on' her soul is (ircd 

J}y dro:uiis of lti'iil:il riii^- uiid Iciss, 
1 sliall, ])orliu|»s, oci, worn and tinul, 

And seek sonu' oilier clime Mian Uiis. 
\U\i llien— whai Llien ? I'll lake no splien^ 

Nor hidden place al-ove, l..'l(,\v, 
Wlu're I can ^ain nc; liinL Ironi hero, 

To lell nie liow lioine nialicrs i;"f). 
And shonid ! learn my <d.ild's astray, 
iJy fliiifi;in!.'; Iier yonni;- hearl, away, 
Worse Mian Mie Talc Mk^ 'I'liscan loiind, 
Wiio (o tlie rotiiii^- cor|»S(^ was lionnd, 
I Hwear hy II im wlio ^avM^ me kreaMi, 
Thcn^ is no seci'c^t powei' in deaMi, 
Nor foi'co above wliicli an/^^'ls know, 
Nor cdiaiiiH wiUiiii the ^-idls helow, 
Nor distance in tlic; realms of (iod, 
^I'o keep mc Ironi my darling- Maude! 
1 will oomc! back Ity si^-n or gi'ip, 
By raj), or Hcroll, or I abb; tip, 
Or sleal your iiunian Mironn-H amono-j 
And sci/.e n|»on some mortal tongue, 
And warn my cliiM to shun tin; deck, 
The voyaL!;e wiMi him — I he storm — the wreck! 



07 



68 



POEMS n Y DA riD BARKER. 

The story of my creed is brief, 
I have this shadowy belief — 

My only hope of real bliss — 
That sometime, on some distant day, 

I shall with penitential tear, 
Find chance to blot or w^ash away, 
Or, at the least, one chance to try 
To palliate, or rectify, 
Within some far more favored sphere. 

Some blind mistakes I've made in this, 
And not let Innocence atone 
For crimes or errors of my own. 

Don't get alarmed at my poet dreams, 

At my ghostly, ghastly spirit themes. 

For it may be in the times afar, 

When spirit stocks are up at par, 

I shall sell out, for here I own. 

In the sight of Him on the great white throne. 

In my wanderings 'round from creed to creed, 

In my dashings off, at a fearful speed. 

With my bark afloat on a doubtful wave. 

To a fitful light beyond the grave ; 

I have learned no prayer that has seemed to me 

Like the one I lisped at my mother's knee. 



rOKMS II Y DA \'ll> IIAUKHU. QQ 

ImiIi' liiiH (Iccn'f(|, lo will <»iii* wivcH 

We ciiiiiM.I Hail !ir..un.i I Ix'ir <'..o|., 
And ••oinc 111.' iii/'hl liawk, wImii lie <iivfH, 

And tak*'. tlicni al. ;i sinxlf- hwooji. 

Von cannot, Sfi/c our modern danu^H, 

Willi riiif^H und ImjhIIch, liooprt and ciirlH — 

Ah, ill- tlioH(* N(^|i1nnr CcaHlH and ^--aincH, 
Tlic. ItoniaiiH «/;i'al)l»<'(i llic, SultiiK! ;^irlK. 

I{iil, iiiuii iiuisl, liavc liiri lioiirw ol' fiiBH — 

MuhL I'awn and Miinlcr, I'lvl, ainl croint, 
III |{(H^|»iii^' oil' Humc j'ival " ciihh," 

Who liaH inorci btnii-'H-oil und colo/,nie. 

Jr yon winli lo out-do a (!liiiianian — 

A real Oliinaiiian to heat - 
'J'lif HaCcHt, vviHi-Ht, Hur<'Ht plan, 
Ih an ex Ira l»rai<l in your (laiintin/i; (jiioiio; 
Jn your vest an extra HJiadc; oi- two — 

And an extra hreadtli in your troiiHci-H' Hoat ; 
Ami, my CrieiHl, it yon ever (all in love,, 
And anollier in all<'i- your liirH<' doV(! — 
'I'he Hale.st, wiKesl, Karen! |.lan, 
Ih tlie name yon would ivy on a ( !liiiianiaii ; 



70 



POEMS BY DA VI D BARKER. 

For woman is Avomaii, wherever you go, 
'Mong- the jubbcrhig hordes of the Esquimaux, 
(Which I roamed anu)iig loug j^ears ago) 
Or your lettered tribes, where the pearly face 
Shows the tint of the Anglo Saxon race. 

Since the primeval birth of morn, 

Wlien the voice came — "let there be light," 
There never was a wonuin born — 

A real woman, moulded right, 
Who Avould not, through this vale of tears, 
Form one blade of the human sliears. 

Miss Katie Field you all must know. 

That pure .young type of womanhood — 

I'll bet my head — worth much to me — 

That Katie Field — yes, even she. 
When in the Adirondack wood. 

And for the night was snuggled down 

Beside the soul of old John Brown ; 

Would sometimes dream about a beau — 

A beau, not of the spirit form, 

But clothed in solid flesh, so Avarm — • 

With sinewy arms to chop or hug. 

With arms her kindling stuff to lug, 



POEMS nr DA VID JiARKEIi. 

To build lior five und cook her food^ 

AVithiu the Adironduck woodv 

Experioiiee proves 'twill never pay, 
To hire your wandering s])irit bands, 
With boneless feet and nerveless hands, 

To chop your cord-wood by tiie day. 

Our bridal tour was all arranged — 

'Twas not for Saratoga, 
Nor Orchard Beach, nor Belfast Bay — 
Down where I caught a wife one day — 

And where they catcli tlie porg}'; 
Nor Plymouth Hock, nor Mount Desert — 
That natural place to fish and flirt — 
But, then, as Grant's whole team and ours 

Were hauling bark for Skinner, 
Wc 'greed to foot it down to Tower's, 

And wait till after dinner: — 
Then take the bark road out by Wright's, 
And stop with Betsey Cook two nights ; 
For Grant's own cousin, Peter Brooks, 
Was shaving shingles down at Cook's. 
In case the Cooks were not at home, 

Or didn't ask us both to stay, 
Wc were to foot it back, that night. 



71 



72 



POEMS n Y DA VID BARKlili. 

And cut onr fswoot-ciikc on the wiiy. 
In a tougli, hard old world like this, 
'Twere well, if many more would be 
Much like Almira Grant and me, 
And guard againnt contingeneiey. 
And then, to close our honey moon, 

When she had knit some linen lace. 
We were to S])end one aCter-noon 

At that old classic watering jilace 
You all must know, that Lombard stream, 

Where Dole, and Drew, and l^oolh and Locke 
Caught suckers by the birch-bark gk'am, 

And where Ihoy walerod all their slock. 

(Irani talked of adding to his house- 
To make the rude log cabin square — 
So, through my brain these thoughts would run. 
When the dear girl and 1 were one, 
With the first bran new Hampden stove. 
With spread and tide her mother wove. 
And chest, which Siinhael (Jrant could make. 
To keep our handsome clothes and cake. 
And the whole mulberry tea-set bought 
With blackberries the dear girl had got, 
With six red chairs, all bottomed fine, 



I'OEMS Ji Y DA VID ItAllKER. ^^ 

AVith basket Hluff or ^^cllum rinef' 
Willi liliisliini^ Howrcts j)ee])lii<^ through 
Tho han-i'l wo could huw in two; 
AVith hult-high bed luid cedur broom, 
We'd occii))y the new front room, 

And t:ike such solid conilori there. 
(Jod never made ti purer gem. 
That Kj)jirkle.s in ti diadem. 
Than the amliilious, moilcst pride, 
Within the breast of the young bride. 
Who Htrives — though poverty her lot — 
To beatitity licr hiiniMe col. 

AVhcn you have loved some red-cln-ck girl, 
AVith many a dimple, man>' a curl, 
And waited on her night and day, 
And many a side-comb given away, 

AVith heart aiul soul aglowing with her — 

When iiove has (brmed its choicest |)lan. 
To find Home short-legg'd gentleman, 
AVith friz/led hair, a going with her, 

Allhoiigh by nature meek and mild, 

It makes you I'eel a little riled. 

l''rom saint or sinner, fop or ])rude. 
There's nothing like pure gratitude. 



74 



POEMS BY DA VI D BARKER. 

For one I go, if I go alone, 

For the sergeant, Tillman Joy, 
Who told them square down at Spunky Point, 

In the State of Illinois — 
If they drove him out or they touched one hair 

Of the black boy, J3anty Tim, 
Who trumped death's ace at the Vicksburg heights — 

Yes, trumped death's ace for him ; 
When the sergeant told how his ribs caved in, 

From the whirl of a splintered shell. 
And the black boy shouldered and lugged him through. 

From the fire-proof, gilt-edged hell; 
How he strongcd him off in his brawny arms. 

At the ring of the Union calls, 
Tliough his dark hide looked like a pepper-box, 

As 'twas riddled by liebel balls; 
Yes, I go for these tough, rough words that boiled 

From the heart of that sergeant Joy — 
'He will rassle his hash in hell to-night 

AVho touches that black-skin boy !" 

Fix all your earthly plans so nice. 

And Burns would say — 
'The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley." 



POEMS IS Y DA FID liARKEB. 

Another fellow giized on her — 

A swanking, bniinless higli-liead — 

With liii.s advantage over me, 
He'd belter clothes than I had. 

He wore a> full-cloth (suit of clothes. 

One made by a man tailor ; 
My mother made mine out oi' wale. 

Though cut by Jlannah KaKu-. 

• 
My home-made cap was red and blue, 

The young sprout seemed to chuckle, 
For a felt hat graced his bullet Lead, 

With hat-band and with buckle. 

The shirt I wore my mother made, 
Without much extra stitching, 

'Twas carded, colored, spun and wove 
Within the old log kitchen. 

He wore an eight cent bough ten one — 
Though very few could use 'em. 

And then, by thunder! in that shirt 
He had a linen bosom ! 



75 



76 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

'Twas ironed stiffer than a stake — 
lie knew sucli bosom pleases — 

And tlieii 'twas ironed np and down, 
And then across in creases. 

And Calc had collar-buttons, too, — 

My shirts I useil to pin them ; 
And, don't you think, his wristbands once 

]Iad bone sleeve-buttons in them! 

• 
His stocking yarn, he said, was dyed 

By Mrs. Jonas AVarner — 
V>\\{ mine was clipped in our own dye-house, 

The (lye-pot in I lie corner. 

He used fresh bear's oil on his hair, 
To i>lease that mother's daughter ; 

I used a wooden pocket comb, 
Hipped into soap and water. 

'Mill all attempts lo please (he lair, 

I think I never yet 
Stuck side-combs in \\\y parted hair, 

Or wore a chemisette. 



POEMS Ji Y DA VID BARKER. *j'J 

I have a love tor tiruijj;s Divine, 

And every thiiiii; tluiL's luimun — 
Except a, brothy female man, 

Conceived by a male woman. 

I dined on bannocks at the school 

Kept down at JTuldali (Injver's; 
He cai'i'ied nut-cakes once a week, 

And frequently turnovers. 

• 

My hair was parted at the side — 

His parted in the middle ; 
I played upon the old bass drum — 

He played u})on the iiddle. 

Our buskin strings were made of tow, 

And twisted by each mother ; 
But after Caleb put on airs, 

His buskin strings were leather. 

How many things like buskin strings, 

While travelling to death's portals, 
Have budded high the walls of caste, 

To separate poor mortals ! 



78 



POEMS JiY DAVID BARKER. 

lie used :x pongee iKvndkerehieC, 

Tieiit hy lus eousin Ihinniih — 
1 used the one 1 carry now, 

A cotton, red bandanna. 

]\ry tairduiired youn<;-er l)r()ther TjCW., 
Was neither shoed nor bt)oted, 

Hut learniui;- then to slunij) New Yoi-k, 
By stuin})ing- 'i-ound barefooted. 

I rubbed cold tallow on ni}- shoes, 
To keep those shoes from cracking;; 

On week days he used melted grouse. 
And Sundays ho used blacking. 

And both of Caleb's oai'S were bored — 
A pegging awl run through them — 

Anil two new (ierman silver rings,' 
Like dro]is of sweat hung to them. 

Some women cannot stand such show — • 
The gay "cuss" seenied to know it ; 

And so he spoiled one lieaven-made match- 
]5ut made one earthly ]>oet. 



POEMS nr IJAVIIJ BARKER 

^Poeta nascitur nonfiV 

Was true, perhaps, when it was said, 

But tiineH, since then, have clianged a bit 
For now-a-days, 'tis plain to see, 
To save the nurse and doctor's fee, 

Most poets are not hoi-n, but made. 

Ail, vain attempt on me to tiy 
Tlie doctrine that tiiere is no lie. 

As some have sun;i^ or said ; 
That falsehood is the child of truth. 
That capers 'round within its youth, 

And stands upon its head. 
I say it in this world beneath. 
Yes, shout it in the wary teeth 

Of philosophic cant, 
It was a whopper — nothing more — 
That teetered me, in days of yore, 

Out of Almira Grant. 
You'll always find the road up hill 
To drive one woman 'gainst her will; 

Yes, even if you know most, 
'Tis better, safer, to engage 
To split wood with an iron wedge, 

And drive it butt end foremost. 



79 



gQ POEMS BY DA FID BARKEM. 

I promised to be true as steel, 
She promised to be truer — 

But oaths she broke and 'eame the bride 
Of fancy Gale McCIuer. 

Yes, ere twelve circlinj;-, golden suns 

Within the east had risen, 
To fill my youthful cup with woes, 
Both stood up in their handsome clothes. 
And pressed each other's palms in turn, 
He swearing ever to be "hern" — 

She swearing to be "hisen." 

Cale cut me out and took the girl 
I loved and spotted for mj wife ; 

But there are things besides the girls 
Of which we're oft cut out in life. 

But, after all is done and said, 

'Tis better, as the heart will prove, 

To love a girl you cannot wed, 
Than wed a girl you cannot love. 

And though life's fiery trials bnng 
Some vain regrets and bitter tears, 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

This earth is but a scaffolding — 
A scaffolding so broad and grand — • 
On which Grod's spirit workmen stand, 
To build us up for higher spheres. 

One day Van Pronk, a Dutchman, died— 

His widow, fair and good, 
Ordered a likeness of Yan Pronk — 

A statue, carved from wood. 

But soon another Dutchman came, 
A Dutchman fresh and yonk ; 

The widow, for a courting fire. 
Then split up old Van Pronk ! 

Almira, once of me so fond. 
When Caleb came to woo her. 

Split me, Van Pronk, for kindling wood, 
To warm up Gale McCluer. 

And such is life — both sons and sires, 
The worldling and the monk — 

To feed the flames of new desires. 
Will split up old Van Pronk. 

6 



81 



82 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

Tho Loaihcrs's took up the cry, 
And prophesied that I shoultl die ; 

But, then, 'tis my belief 
'Tis mio-ht.y seldom tluit you sec 
A gentlemun built Just like me 

For standing love and gi-ief. 

We had no lawyer in our town 
To take our gi'cenbaeks from us ; 

No learned man (o bring, lor me, 
A suit foi" lu'i'aeh <>f ])r()iuise. 

These were long years bel'ore n»y mind 
J lad turiunl to legal reading — 

Though 'Mira thought T uiulerstood 
The ibrms of "special ])leading." 

80 there are times when human laws 

Cannot bo found to save us ; 
'^Vo have to use those substitutes 

Whieh (rod or Nature gave us. 

Next day I met the feslive lover, 

AVhen Oaleb put on airs anew — 
When wt)unded \o\c and wouiuled ju-ide. 



POEMS ItY DAVID IIAIlKl'JJl. 



83 



Wlion :uii;ti' and :unl)i(i()ii, loo, 
Ciinio nishiiig-, I'nintio, to my side, 
And fired the feclin,<;-H of ji man — 
Then i'ained my douhlo-solc ltro<;'iui 
Against thcdbi-m of Calo McClucr — 
TJjat ponderous pari, of liim, I'm sure, 
AVhicIi seomiMl (ho j^iiosl, exposed io be — 
That part of his anatomy, 

Which iijentlemen with eoa( tails cover. 
I felt i(, wiietlier wronjj,- or ri^-ht, 
'VUi) hour hud come for nu* to li,i;-iit; 
I telt myself in the same lix 
As tlio old Massachusetts Six, 
AVhen, thro' tlic mob they hewed theii- \\;i\' 

'Mid the first s[)alter ol' tlie o-ore— 
Upon that wild, old April day — 

In the red strectH of 13altimore. 
'Tis settled well ; tiiei'o seems to be 
(I Icaru it from zoology) 
Four ty))es or grades of animals. 
And which the man of sciiMice calls 

The vertebratcd, 

Articulated, 

The mollusk, 

And the radiated. 



QA POEMS BT DA VID BARKER. 

That day, in looking Caleb over, 
I found the festive rival lover 

Possessed the functions of the four ; 
But when I raised my foot to route him, 
I found, — 

The way he measured off the ground — 
There was but little man about him. 
"With my passions boiled down in my youthful brogan, 
Oh, the way that I routed that young mamed man 
Makes me think of the time, on that glorious day, 
That we routed the Eebs in the Winchester fray ; 
When Phil. Sheridan flew o'er the Winchester course^ 
Kesembling the picture of Death on his horse. 
If there's one in this crowd, to the Union so true. 
That he shouldered his gun, and was dressed up in blue, 
And was there in that fight — in that battle so grand — 
I will wait for a time till he holds up his hand ; — 
Yes, I see you were there, Avhen the old starry flag 
Slapped its folds in the face of that rattle-snake rag. 
Bret Harte, no doubt, in writing how poor Walker 

Was dogged from rock to tree. 
Had heard about my routing Cale McCluer, 

And took his style from me. 
Bret says, when Walker blew a hole thro' Peters, 
For tcUino- him he lied — 



POEMS BY DA VI D HARKER. 

Then up and dusted (.iit of South Hornitos, 

Across the long Divide ; 
They ran out at Strong's, and up thro' Eden, 

And 'cross the ford below ; 
Then up the mountain — Peters' brother leadin' — 

With guide, and Clark, and Joe. 

I feel it, somehow. 

That I ought to be a little more definite now. 
And to tell you the spot, on this new married man. 
That I hit with the sole of my maddened brogan ; 
It Avas just at the forks that was made by his pins, 

And near at the point — if my memory don't fail — 

Where Agassiz tells me the base of the tail 
Of a perfectly well formed gorilla begins. 
As age creeps on, 'tis strange how memory fails — 
For, come to think, gorillas have no tails ! 
Another blind mistake, 'twixt 3'ou and me, 
I never saw this famous Agassiz. 
One sterling pi-inciplc of law 

I find is settled well — 
Each has the right to run or fight. 

In earth, or heaven, or hell ; 
But cannot find, in any code. 
The Koran, Shaster, or the Word 



85 



86 



POEMS BY nA VID BARKER. 

Which Moses from the mountahi heard : 
In any musty book of mine — 
The human, doubtful, or Divine — 

'Tis written down a sin 
To gently raise your young brogan 
Against the form of any man, 
Who steals by night your girl aAvay — 
Then puts on airs the coming day, 

And tries to rub it in. 

Gale's father kept a dancing school — 

Perhaps the old folks, present, know him- 
He was a fiddling barber, too ; 

His wife was double cousin to him. 
They say when double cousins wed, 

By Fowler's phrenologic rules, 
Their children are almighty smart. 

Or else they are almighty fools. 
Now Caleb spread himself so wide 

He lapped each phrenologic rule ; 
For, every day and every time, 

Cale Avas a smart almighty fool. 
On marriages I make no raids ; 
I make no thrusts at honest trades ; 
By sledge and hammer, spade and hoe, 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

By lathered brush or rosined bow, 
By sword and lancet, pill and probe. 
By priostl}'- cowl and priestly robe ; 

Man has the right to earn his pelf — 
Although, from policy or pride, 
I keep no striped pole outside, 
By razors strapped on Coke and Kent, 
And lather made from twelve per cent.,- 

I run a shaving mill myself! 
But then, amid my wrong and right, 

I never did nor never can 
Defraud a fool, a cripple fight, 

Or plague a crazy man. 
But then, this fact you all should know. 

Though made from decent metals, 
I think, before that I should go 

Ten days without my victuals. 
And could not beg or buy a meal — 
E'en pride would show me hoAv to steal. 

I've read — but where I cannot say — 
In that old Indian book by Drake, 

In Hudibras or Eabelais, 

Or else, perhaps, in Ida May, 

Or dreamed it all when wide awake ; 



87 



88 



POEMS BY DA VID BABKEB. 

In Audubon on forest birds, 

Or Ganssen's Plenary Inspiration ; 
In Doctor Dadd on flocks and herds, 

Or Rollin on some ancient nation ; 
In some weird tale by Walter Scott, 

His Black Dwarf or his Quientin Durward ; 
In Mrs, Lane's Forget-Me-Not, 

Or those etherial songs by Sherwood — 
In some old book where gibberish words 

Were found like "e^o, tims, metis,'' 
Or in some work of modern date. 

Your Ecce Homo, Ecce Deus ; 
In Eandom Eamblcs 'Mong the Tombs, 

Which make the brain feel wild and frantic 
In some quaint scrap by Wendell Holmes, 

Just published in the last Atlantic ; 
In Miracles by Doctor Stone, 

Or rhymes by Hosoa Bigelovv, 

Or Uncle Tom by Mrs. Stowe ; 
Hold up your horses ; here I own 

I've given those names just for a show, 
As thousand others have before. 

To make the auditors — the green — 
Believe they have a world of lore 

From books their eyes have never seen. 



POEMS BY DA VI D BARKER. 

I never read one-half the books 

, Here named, so pompously, to-night ; 

And, ten to one, 'twixt me and you, 

I havn't spelt the names aright. 
I have no eye, no love — I own — 

For beauties in your lettered lore, 
Upon the cold, white leaf alone 

I find no heart to look them o'er; 
JJut let those lettered beauties shine 
Ujion this brain and heart of mine. 

All pure and radiant, fresh and warm. 
Shine through that strange, mysterious prism 

Some human, sympathetic form. 
But yet intenser organism ; 

Or held within that circling band, 
Upon the unseen verging lino 

Which separates the border land ; 
And I can see and feel their power, 
And in the fervent, frenzied hour. 
Transfer those rays with rustic art 
Which fall upon my brain and heart. 

Now let me stop and quote eight lines 

From Lalla I'oo, or Lalla Eookh, 
You'll find the verses printed out 



89 



90 



POEMS li y DA VID BAllKEB. 

In Tom Mooi'c'h Irish ])oot book : 
"Oh, ever thus, i'rom childhood's Jioiir, 

"I've seen my loudest hopes decay — 
"I never loved a tree or flower, 

"But 'twas the first to fade away. 
"I never nursed a dear <;-a/A'lle, 

" To ghid me with its soft black eye, 
"But when it came to know mo well, 

"And love me, it was sure to die." 

Moore wrote those lines M'ith heart and soul, 
With thought some critic's taste to ])loase ; 

But, writing them, Tom felt no v;orse 
Than I, in writing linos like these. 

A pale thin form oil meets ni}^ givz;o, 

Clad out in tattered dresses, 
Compelled to take, through forms of law, 

A bloated brute's caresses. 

And, as she passes, oft I dream 

When in my office lawing, 
That form resembles a green girl 

That my spruce gum was "chawing." 



/'oiars liY n.iiin itAimiui. 

And. nil ! I well iTiiuMiiltcf oiico, 

III iii!ikiii,<>; ii|i my ilockrl, 
liihl.'iul ..r my ol<l cliciil'H ii.-iiiK!— 

I think his nanm wuh i'llli'ick Diniii — 
My liMinI, (III runccd, \vi'ot(! oiil, Llio nuino, 

The H(raiii|;c|y iii!U.!;i<: liuiiK'. ol' oim 
Who, hy a (iilh.w cuii.II.'m lii-hl, 
('niimncd ivy h'uv^H wilh me, <jiic iii;.',lit, 
lull) my I roiihci'h' |)(»ckc(,. 

Oh, lor ihiiL Mcs.rd h.Mir an. I |.la<:r, 

When HOIIK! l»clli,L;ll di\'illil,i<'H 

.May riiniiwh hoiiIh, iiiimal,c<l here, 
Willi n|.iril,iial allinilJcH! 

I care nol, where Ijial, phieo may he, 

Tlioii^fh l,o Lhal, [ilaeo \h /«iven 
The eomnion Mcurc-ci'ow name of hell, 

Ol- I he, niildci' una of lioavon. 

How, many and many an h'/iir, I lecil 
'I'haL (!al<! M('('lii<'i- hhoiild me(;l, my nUieJ, 
Or \vlii/,/,inn- hiilhd,, \v<!i'e. il, nol, 
l''or LliiH truth that Jlann lireilmaiin \vrf>ti}; 
"v\(!li, dc eiiJH dut I'rom elil 



91 



92 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

" Troo a life ish ever grow ! 

"Had I never dink I killed you 

"Many a man were livin now — 

"Many a man dat shleeps in canebrakcs, 

"Many a man py pillow-shore; 

" For dy mordcr mate me reekelos, 

"And von tead man gries for more!" 

I have, upon life's lower plane, 

Some darling ones around me ; 
And I have ties, in upper spheres, 

Whose spirit links have bound me ; 
And I have bread enough in store. 

And friends, from judge to peasant, — 
To keep the gaunt wolf from my door, 

At least just for the present. 
I love them all as man should love. 

And love to write and sing 'em, 
But since that strange and primal brush 

Which came from that girl's gingham ; 
My heart has never beat as then. 

While sitting by Almira, 
Upon that night I reckon from 

As Arabs from Ileoira. 



POEMS li Y DA VID BARKER. 93 

'Tls said tho microscope now tells 

That every breathing human frame 
Is made from little curious cells, 

And all too numerous to name ; 
That each contains distinct, alone, 
A life, a being of its own. 
Oh, could I be but young once more ! 

I feel I can, then feel I can't — 
And she were blooming as of yore — • 

That daughter of old tShubacl Grant; 
How would my spirit love to dwell, 
For ages, in each tiny cell, 
Then garner in each little lil'e. 
And form one entity — a Avifc ; 
I ask no purer draught of bliss — 
No other Moslem heaven than this : 
Except outside my gate I should 
Keep Gale McCluer sawing wood. 
I went to Denmark once, you know. 
And there I learned that, years ago, 
In Jutland, Avhen a warrior died. 

They took the mailed and grinning corse. 
And stretched the stiffened legs astride 

The back of his scarred battle horse. 
Then pranced the snorting steed around, 



94 



POEMS BY DAVID ItAIlKER. 

When the pale corso 

And the live horse 
AVoro buried 'neath some buriul mound. 
I cannot help it — no, I can't — 
When thinking of Almira Grant; 
I sometimes! wish I was that corse, 
If Oale ]\rcCluer was my horse! 

With all my love for Caleb's bride, 

Of one thing I am sure, 
Though 3'ou may talce my pledge or not, 

1 will not on this earthly side 
Jjay claim b}^ act, or word, or thought, 

To the wife of Cale MeChuT. 
Maine's statute hiw gives Calc Mie right 
To claim that wife both day and night; 
But may be, on that yonder side — 

That spirit side the water — 
Where old earth laws are all repealed, 
And truth and love are quick revealed. 
As Cale McCluer did years ago, 
I may just put on airs, you know, 
And ask the curl haired spirit fop 
To vacate, there, his bridal shop, 
And then take charge of C'aleb's wife. 

And of old Shubaefs daughter. 



POEMS BY DAVID JiAUKEB. 

Tlic new-born, blisHful butterfly, 
Wljilc scooting tbrou;^b tbe liquid Hky, 

"VVlth it« ethci'iul tillci-, 
Muy recollect, and with a nquirm, 
The Avay folks used him when a worm, 

Oi- crcepin/^ cat(!i-pillar. 
Thou«^h arms be swapped for wings, yet I 
May think back like the butterfly; 

"For time at last sets all things even, 
"And, if we do but watch the hour, 
"There never yet was human power 
"Which could evad<', if uiifoi-givcn, 
"The patient search, and vigil long, 
"Of him who treasures up a wrong." 

Jiiit you may quickly ask me how 

I'll manage her I live with now? 

To tell you, truthfully and plain. 

The way she blows me, now and then. 

And calls me fool so many a time, 

When mumbling o'er some love-sick rhyme, 

I'm not so sure, that even she 

AVould not be glad to dicker me 

For spirit Cale McCluer, 
Wh(!n fiTiod from f,ai"th. aii<l fairly o'er 



95 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

Upon the untried misty shore ; 

For Cale, though here a noted curse, 

Has never writ one love-sick verse. 

But I have blabbed of death enough — 

I feel the risk of death like this : 
'Tis like the playing blindman's bluff 

Around so'tne fearful precipice. 
All creeds and all foundations laid, 

AH promises through pardoning grace, 
Are swept like grass before the blade, 

When gazing in a dead man's face. 

"There is not of that castle gate, 
"Its draw-bridge or portcullis weight, 
"Stone, bar, moat, bridge or barrier left, 
"Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 
" Save what grows on a ridge of wall 
"Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall. 

Thus spoke the old Mazeppa, freed 
From Palestine's wild Tartar steed ; 

And thus speak I, that you may know 
The fate of Grant's old log house, where . 

McCluer and I, long years ago. 
Once battled for Almira there ; 



POEMS BY DA VID liARKER. 

That castle to which Caleb ran, 

With three hoists from my young brogan. 

The cot whei'e Shubael Grant once dwelt 

Has felt the force of Time's decay, 
The place where 'Mira's mother knelt 

I visited but yesterday ; — 
1 heard no sound like those of yore, 

When Grant's whole tribe of children played ; 
I found no foot-prints at the door, 

Which I or Gale JMcCliier made. 
A groan, a tear — the spade, the mound — 

Then the tall grass came bending o'er 
The forms of three young laughing girls, 

AYho "peaked" down thro' that chamber floor. 
Those three small boys, who cuddled down. 

Within the trundle-bed, that night, 
Dressed up in blue and went to God 

From Spottsyl van ia's gory fight! 
One topless tree now stands between 

Two knolls where Shubael piled his wood, 
One little heap of rocks is seen, 

On which the catted chimney stood. 
Around that spot how many a time, 

When dreaming, drunk with saddened bliss, 

7 



97 



98 



POEMS B Y DA VID BARKEli. 

Some relic of a Scottish rhyme 
Has pelted at my heart like this : 
"JMy master's gone, and no one now 

"Dwells in the halls of Ivor, 
"Men, dogs and horses, all are dead — 
"I^m the sole survivor." 
When Cale McCluer had stole my girl. 
And brokers came one chilling morn, 
And chiimed, through my dead father's deed, 

My mother's cot, Avhere I was born — ■ 
I cannot tell the reason Avhy, 

But heart and brain and nerve grew strong, 
And quickly took this wholesome hint 
From fragments of an Irish song : 

"When nettles grow around the hearth. 
And towers that now so statel}' stand. 
In scattered fragments fill the earth. 
And Saxon strangers own the land. 

To Adrighoole's sea-beaten coast — 
Then let O'Grara's son repair, 

Wealth far beyond what ho has lost, 
And joy shall be restored him there." 



POEMS n Y DA VID DARKER. 



99 



CONCLUSION. 

Now go to 3'oiu' homes, whether husband or wife, 

With a hope in the skies and a purpose in life ; 

Tbo' you revel in wealth, or thro' poverty plod, 

Be true to yourselves, to each other, and God ; 

In 3'our journeyings thro', whether servant or master. 

Like the brave engineer at the Hamburg disaster — 

Whatever your loss or whatever 3'our gain — 

Like immortal "Doc Simmons," go down unth the train.'' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



/'OEMS liY DAVID liAUKIiU. 

TIIF. IINDKII hoc IN THh: FICHT. 

I know tlial I he world lli:il> llui <j;ft':d. hii;- world 
!''roMi \\\v. |»c;is;iid. up to iJic Iviiii;-, 

lias a dill'crciil lah; IVoiii idic (ale I tell, 
And a dill'ciHMil, .son,o' lo siiit;-. 

I'.iil loi- ni(>, aiKJ I (;aiv noi, a sin-U; li-;- 
irtlii'N- say I am wi-onii; or am i"i,u;li(., 

1 shall always --o in I'or (lie wcakci- do.--, 
I'or 111.- iin.lcr .lo- in ll..' fi-'hl,. 



f I know dial, Hi.! world— llial l,lu^ ,<j,'r('al, lii-' world- 
' Will n.'V.'i' a iii.im.'nl, sloj) 

To HL'c wliicli d.ii;' may Im in llic liiult, 
\lui will sh.mt lor llic do,-- on l,o|). 



BiiL lor me — I ncvcsr shall pans.! l,o ask 

AVliich do,!,^ may W. in Ih.-, i-in-jil,— 
For my heart, will heal-, whil.^ il, heals al all, 

For th.! nnd.^r d.),-- in Hi.; lii^hl,. 

J?ei'cliancc what I've said, I had lud^Lei' nol said, 

Or, 'twere better i ha.l said it incoij, 
]Jiit with lieart an.l with ^lass lille.l ehoek to the hrim, 

Hero \h luek to the bottom do<'". 



103 



104 



roEMS nr DAVID baukeji. 



THE SIGN OF DISTRESS. 

'Twas 11 wild dreary nig-ht in the cheerless December, 
'Twas a iiiglit only lit by a meteor's gleam ; 

'Twas the iiiglit of that night, I distinctly remember, 
That my sou! journeyed forth on the wings of a dream. 

That dream found me happy, by tried friends surrounded, 
Enjoying with rapture the comforts of wealth. 

My cup overflowing, with blessings unbounded. 

My heart fully charged from the fountains of health. 

That dream left me Avretched — by friendship forsaken, 
Dejected, despairing, and wrapped in dismay. 

By poverty, sickness and sorrow o'ertaken, 
To evciy temptation and passion a ])rey, 

In frenzy, the wine-cup I instantly quafted at. 
And habit and time made me quatf to excess, 

But heated by wine, like a madman, I laughed at 
The thought of e'er giving a Sign of Distress. 



POEMS li Y DA VID BARKER. 

But wine sank me lower, by lying j^retences, 
It tiitterod my rainicnt and furrowed my face, 

It palisicd my .siucws and pilfered my senses, 
And tbreed me to proffer a 8iy,ii of Distress. 

I reeled to a ehapel where eliurehmen were kneeling. 
And aslcing their StjjVior poor sinjiers to bless, 

M}' claims I presented, the door of that ehapel 
Was slammed in my face at the Sign of Distress. 

I strolled to the priest, to the servant of heaven, 
And sued for relief with a wild eagerness; 

He ])rayed that lu}^ sins might at last be forgiven, 
^\nd thought he had answered my Sign of Distress, 

I staggered at last to the home of my mother. 
Believing my prayers would meet with success. 

But father, and mother, and sister and brother. 
Disowned me, and taunted my Sign of Disti'ess. 

I lay down to die, as a stranger drew nigh me, 
A spotless white lambskin adorning his dress. 

My eye caught the eml»lem, and ere ho passed by me, 
I gave, as before, the sad Sign of Distress. 



105 



106 



rOEMS n Y DA VID BARKER. 



With Godlike emotions that messenger hastens 
To grasp me, and whisper, " my brother, I bless 

The hour of my life when I learned of the Masons, 
To give and to answer your Sign of Distress." 

Let a sign of distress by a Ci-aftsnian be given, 
And though priceless to mo is eternity's bliss, 

May my name never enter the records .of heaven, 
Should J fail to acknowledge that Sign of Distress. 



WHERE THE OLD FOLKS LIVED AND DIED. 

I never shall tell who the old folks Avero, 

'Tis a wasting of time and breath, 
To give you the names of the humble pair, 

Who have passed through the courts of death. 

But the cot on the lot on the top of the hill. 
Near the spot where I just have cried — 

'Tis the lot where the old folks toiled and lived, 
And the cot where the old folks died — 

Is dearer ftvr to m}^ Aveary heart 
Than the dearest spot of earth, 



I' OEMS BY DA VJJJ BAnKKli. 



107 



For that was the cot on the lot on the hill 
Whore the old folks gave me' birth. 

There's a slab near the cot on the lot on the hill, 

That will tell to the traveller there 
When the old folks passed through the gates of death, 

And the names oi'the humble pair. 

When I tire of the toils and the cares of my life, 

Oh, then, at the spot where I cried, 
Xear the cot let me sleep, on the top of the hill, 

Cuddled down by the old folks' side. 



THE COVEEED BEIDGE. 

Tell the fainting soul in the weary form, 
There's a world of the purest bliss, 

That is linked as that soul and form 'are linked, 
By a covered bridge with this. 

Yet to reach that realm on the other shore, 
Wo must pass through a transient gloom, 

And must Avalk unseen, unhelped, and alone, 
Through that covered bridge — the tomb. 



108 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

But we all pass over on equal terms, 

For the universal toll, 
Is the outer garh, which the hand of God 

Has flung- around the soul. 

Though the eye is dim, and the bridge is dark. 

And the river it spans is wide, 
Yet faith points through to a shining mount. 

That looms on the other side. 

To enable our feet, in the next day's march. 

To climb up that golden ridge. 
We must all lie down for a one night's rest, 

Inside of the covered bridge. 



GENERAL BEEPtY.* 

Ob, wipe out the tears that bedim; 
What! standing and weeping for him — 

The soldiei' — why, this is not he 

In the long, narrow box that you see. 

* General Hiram G. Berry, of Rocklnnd, was killed at the battle of Chancellors- 
ville, May 3d, 1863, and buried with military and masonic honors at Rockland, May 
14th, 1863; and the foregoing stanzas I wrote for the purpose of reading at tiie buri- 
al service, but was not able to attend. 



POEMS BY DAVin BARKER. ^09 

He lives on Just the same us before; 
This is only the blouse that he wore — 

Thai he wore 'mid the din and the strife, 
In the terrible battle of life. 

Though death, in his terrible raid, 
Has stolen the i^ieath from his blade ; 

Yet that blade shall be witnessed again 
In the fight, o'er the ranks of his men. 

When yon waves, marshalled out like a host, 
Shall forget to march up 'round your coast ; 

When these quarries beneath us shall fail, 
And the sun and the moon shall turn pale ; 

When the stars shall wane out from the sk}^, 
Then the name of your Berry shall die ; 

For he fell with a myriad like him. 
Striking chains from the manacled limb. 

'JMicn dry up the tears that bedim; 
Not standing and weeping for him — 

The warrior — for this is not he 

In the long, narrow box that you see. 



110 



POEMS JiY DAVID llARKER. 



THE POOK WOOD-HAULER. 

Do 3-011 tbiiik of the forty years ago, 

When you and I were smaller, 
And the cold, dead man that was found in the snow, 

AVhom we'll eall the poor wood-hauler? 

AYith a manly heart, he was bartering Avood 
From the home Avhere love had bound him. 

To deal with an honest hand the food 
To the flock tliat euddled 'round liim. 

When that staff we leaned upon was l>roke — 

In that awful hour, iny brother. 
We had nothing left to lean upon. 

But God and a Eoman mother. 

But that mother's /onn is trembling now — 
Though her spijit is strong as ever — 

And is tottering down, with a feeble step. 
To the banks of a stormy river. 

Hark ! I hear a voice o'er the river's roar — 

"Tis a voice that seems to call her — 
And it comes from that man on the misty shore. 

Oh ! T sec — 'tis the poor wood-hauler. 



POEMS JJ Y DA VID liARKER. J ^ | 

THE SHEPHEBD AND THE LAMB. 

Ill the Scottifili hills, as a sl!C])hcrd stroUcl, 

On an eve, with his ancient crook, 
He found a lamb that was chilled and young, 

Jjy the side of a purling brook. 

\\A through fear tlftit the lamb might sicken and die, 

Erom its mother's side might i*oam, 
He cari-ied it up Avith a tender care, 

To a fold in his highland home. 

Mid the dreary night, o'er the cragged peaks. 

Through the winds, and the storms, and the cold, 

Tl)e mother followed her captured lan^b 
To the door of the shejiherd's fold. 

Once we had a lamb by its mother's side, 

Tt was artless, and pure, and mild, 
Twas the dearest lamb in my own dear flock. 

Oh, the pale, little blue-eyed child. 

But a shepherd came, when the sun grew low, 

Y>y a path that has long been trod, 
And he carried our lamb through the mists of night, 

To his fold in the mount of fJod. 



112 



POEMS BY DA VII) liAIiKER. 

AVith a tearful eye, and a bleediiii;- heart, 
AVe musl, l)ear it and sti'iii;-i;-le on, 

And elind) (liat mount by the sliephord's track 
To tlie fold where f)ur himh haw <>-()no. 



A WELCOME TO THE 2d MA IN I'] liECMMENT.* 

Thoug-h enfeebled by clime, and disH<;-ured l)y scars, 
Hero's a " welconiini;- home" to you, children of ]\rars. 

From your honors and jn-rils, lhroui;-h your rivei's of g'Ore, 
AVo will welcomes 3'()u back like the Temjtlars of yore. 

Liko the Knights who (the song and the legend hath told) 
Brought their wounds from (he lance of the Paynim of old. 

We Avill welcome you, warriors, all weary and worn. 
Wo will welcome 3'our baniu^rs, all tattered and torn ; 

For those rents tell the world you've accomplished your part. 
And tho light streaming through gilds the hope of the heart. 

But I see tlirough the lens of a glistening tear — 

Oh, I SCO what lU}" heart hath long taught me to fear; 



* I'lic Sccoiiil ISIainc Ucfiiuu'iit, uiidov Cohmel Vnriiey, was roreivcd ))y the cily 
aiillioritii'H of Hangov, May 'i'l, 18(!;!, and 1 vcail tlit' rovegoing poem to tliein at Xorom- 
bc'ga Hall. 



J'O/iMS liY DAVID llAliKEli. 



113 



Thero arc soineof your hravcs who wiilked oiil in lli('iriniy;ht — 
There are some from }-oiir ranks, who wc^ii lorLh to the fight, 

Arc not licre with you now, in a bodily form — 

Arc not here, in your ranks, Avith their lieai-ts beating warm. 

But they know and they I'eel, :ind they live an before — 
'iMid 30ur scenes of to-day the}' are here en rcipport. 

Thougli the cheek on your I'olls maivcs a ])art of you slain, 
Yet we weleome you all as the Second of Maine I 

And to you who survive, and to those who have bled, 
Here's a welcome to all, whether living or dead! 



Till-] VWiV] BOATMAN. 

In that (!old and ancii-nt wlici-ry. 
By that Ihronged, though fearful An-ry, 
O'er that bold and boisterous river. 
See that Boatman, bending ever. 

Ho has toiled for every nation 
Since the birth-day of creation. 

When old Eve, our [irimal mother, 

Wiped the dcatli-damp from Cain's brother, 



114 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKEB. 

Then that Boatman took that whci'iy, 
And first crossed that fearful terry ; 

Looked he stern and pale beside it, 
At that first time that he tried it. 

Mortals ! 
Yon and I must go in 
That saine boat which he is rowing! 

THE OLD CAMP GROUND. 

As the sun sank down to rest, 
Like a child upon the breast, 

Guarded by the picket on his round, 
Each regiment and corps, 
With another day's toil o'er, 

Was feasting on the old camp ground. 

But there came another sound, 

For the grape and shot and shell — 

Hissing like a fiend of hell — 

On their serried columns fell ; 

At the closing of the fight. 

In the darkness of the night, 
There was blood upon the old camp ground. 



POEMS BY VA VID BARKER. y^^ 

Then the hasty, fervent prayer 
Of the priest, who hurried there, 
Like a mother kneeling o'er 
Some young hero in his gore, 
Faintly gasping out Uie name 
That an absent loved one bore ; 
Told of who the wine-press trod, 
Told of hope and faith in God, 

To the dying on the old camp ground. 

When the night had worn away, 
Then the blessed beams of day, 

By the spade and ditch and mound. 
Told that spirits, brave and true. 
Had forsook those forms in blue, 

And ascended from the old camp ground. 

TO "LEATHEE FEENCH." * 

You have haunted the dreams of my sleep, 

Leather French, 

You have troubled me often and long. 
And so now to give rest to the waves of my soul. 

Leather French, let me sing you a song. 

* Stephen Y. French, a well-known hermit, called "Leather French," died at the 
almshouse in Exeter, March 8, 1858, aged about 80 years. 



116 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



I supi-)oso thiit the cold world may snoer, 

Tjenthcr French, 

For they've done it too often before, 
"When the innermost sj^rit has snatched up its harp. 

Just to sing o'er the grave of the poor. 

Never mind, let them laugh, let them sneer, 

(jcather French, 

We will not be disturbed by them long. 
For we'Jl step out aside from the battle of life. 

While I question and sing you my song. 

You were poor when you lived here below, 

Leather French, 

And yon suffered from hunger and cold, 
And 'twas well you escaped from the storm and the blast. 

At the time you grew weary and old. 

Has that old leather garb that you Avore, 

Leather French, 

That you wore in the days long ago, 
Been exchanged for the robe that you named in your prayer, 

For a robe that is whiter than snow. 

And that dreary old hut where you dwelt, 

Leather French, 
That old hut on the hurricane lands, 



POEMS BY JJ AVID liARKElt. 

Was it biirtorod by you ;it the passoH of dctith, 
For u houBO not (n'ocliMl willi hunds? 

"When tlie toys that 1 h)vo l.ccoinc stale, 

Leather French, 

And ni}^ life's fitful fever lias passed, 
Shall I safel}- cross over the Joi-dan of death, 

Shall I meet you in heav<'n at hist. 

Tell nie true — tt'll me all — tell me iu)\v — 

Jveather French, 

For the tale you can tell me is worth 
More to nic than the wisdom, the ])leasures, the fame 

And the riches and honoi's of earth. 

Shall I meet no response to my call, 

Leather Fivnch, 

Tell me quick^ for 1 cannot wait long. 
For I'm siunmoned again to the battle of life — 

Leather Fivnch — J have ilnished my song. 



117 



1 1 Q POEMS Ji Y DA VI D JiARKEJt. 

A SOLACE FOR DARK HOURS. 

(Written in darlc hours.) 

A iiurling rill, so small and weak, 

Onco nearly died upon its wa}', 
While running round the sea to seek, 

Upon a summer's day. 

But soon a cloud hung o'er that rill, 
And soon came down an autumn rain, 

When quick it danced by vale and hill. 
Restored to strength again. 

So pilgrim, though jowy cloud should lower. 
Though sorrow's storm should come at length, 

Yet God may clothe that storm with power. 
To give your spirit strength. 

It is not best that all should live 

'Mid peaceful gales, 'neath sunny skies, 

For cloud and tempest often give 
Rich blessings in disguise. 

The seaman's bark,. whose bellied sail 

The storm has drenched and wind has filled, 

To reach its destined port might fliil. 
If storm and wind were stilled. 



I'OEMs liY D.n'in H.ini<i:n. 

And Uiiis our l.iirUs miiy <|uick<T liiid, 
Tlioii/^Ii l()ii;j; ()('itii;;"i'y vviivcs lln' sporl,, 

Tlioiif^li (IuhIhmI uluijul by HLonii ami wind, 
A (inal, jx'iiccl'iil |)()i-|,. 

The HiiioiiMcrin-' coals Mial, iiiidci-ncal li 
Sonic ciinilMToiis |.il.- i.av(^ calndy lain, 

Miu'lii, liiv lli(( would, il'l'aiintid hy l)i-((al,li 
Ol" pasKini;' liiirricanc. 

And lirol licr, now, perhaps I lion liasi,, 
Deep l)iiricd 'nc^al-li plebeian name, 

A fire*, vvlii(di toindied by soi-row's bluHt, 
May kindle, into (laiiKi. 

'V\\v. nisL that croo])H o'ei- warrioi-'s blade, 
WIk^ii Poaco fan Hleej) wiUiouL alarniH, 

Ih Hctiii iif) niorc!, when slioiil, is made: 
"To armn! — Iho fbc! — to armHl" 

And (dnis a readiness Ibi- sIriCe, 
Vov action in Uiis world ol'li^-lil,. 

May both proleet tin; spirit's lil'e. 
And k(H!p ItH w(!aponH bri^^ht. 

Ifovv oft tho feurCid conflict Bccms 
'Vo w((al{(!n woe and Htron^thon W(!al, 



119 



220 POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

By hardening up the softened nerves, 
As smith-man hardens steel. 

Fear not the man of wealth and birth, 

Securely resting in his seat, 
But sooner him, who, dashed to earth, 

Is rising to his feet. 

From straightened bow the arrowed spear, 
By warrior's arm is never sent; 

The danger which j6\\ have to fear, 
Comes when that bow is bent. 

MARY HALL. 

My heart with grief is riven. 
When I think of Mary Hall, 

Though she dwells in j^onder heaven, 
If there is a heaven at all ; 

Yes, she died and went to heaven, 
If there is a heaven at all. 

Tbe stars refused at night 
To shine from out the skies, 

When tbe mellow, liquid light 
Floated forth froni Mary's ej^es ; 



POEMS li Y DA VID BARKER. 

When she lived, Biicli liquid light 
Floated forth from Miiry'8 eyes. 

The modest flower and meek 
Always felt ashamed to bloom, 

For the tint on Mary's cheek, 
Ere we laid her in the tomb, 

Made the modest flower and meek 
Always feel ashamed to bloom. 

The angels getting lonely 
In their old and quiet home, 

Sent a word to Mary, only. 
Just for Mary Ilall to come ; 

The word was, "Mary, only, 
None but Mary Hall to come." 

The courier could not tany. 
Only just to make the call. 

So he threw a garb o'er Mary — 
'Twas a dark and funeral pall — 

And he fled to heaven with Mary, 
If there is a heaven at all. 



121 



122 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



DIED; 



At Exeter, (Maine) Emma, daughter of Francis W. and Sarah A. Hill, aged 14 
years. 

We have laid aside your casket, 

Peacefully to rest, 
With that simple M^reath of flowers 

Blushing on the breast ; 

While your mates, with tones of music, 

'Eound the casket stand. 
Cheering on the trembling spirit 

To the Morning Land. 

For this pleasing, painful trouble. 

For this tearful task, 
Simple are the terms of payment — 

Is the boon we ask. 

From your home, which love inherits, 

O'er this vale of tears. 
With your choir of kindred spirits, 

In those happier spheres — 

On some beauteous Summer evening. 

When the world is still. 
Send us back those tones of music, 

Angel Emma Hill. 



POEMS B Y DA FID BARKER. 



ONLY SHE AND I. 

Since our last, tlio' rapturous meeting, 

Years have flitted by, 
Yet I mind it, how we met there — 

Only she and I. 

Quickly after^that last meeting, 

Life's embittered storm 
Frightened out her trembling spirit 

From its fragile form. 

'Tis no matter — all no matter — 

In God's future years 
We shall meet again together, 

Somewhere in the spheres. 

When that meeting — how that meeting, 

Where, I cannot say — 
But I'm sure of such a meeting, 

At no distant day. 

Yes, within some cozy corner, 

In the earth or sky, 
We shall hold one blessed meeting — 

Only she and I. 



123 



124 



POEMS BY DAVID DARKER. 



MY CHILD'S ORIGIN. 

One night as old Saint Peter slept, 
He left the door of heaven ajar, 

When through ;i little angel crept. 
And came down with a falling star. 

One summer as the blessed beams 

Of morn approached, my blushing bride, 

Awakened from some pleasing dreams, 
And found that angel by her side. 

God grant but this, I ask no more, 
That Avhen he leaves this world of sin. 

He'll wing his way for that blest shore, 
And find the door of heaven aii'ain. 



POEMS UY DA VID BARKER. \^^ 



MY SISTER. 

How cuhnly she sleeps in the gnive, 

Let her rest ; 
How sadly the cypress trees wave 

O'er her breast. 

How anxiously gazed I with fear, 

At her bed ; 
How startling the sound in my car, 

" She is dead !" 

What a night brooded over that day, 

What a gloom. 
When bearing her slowly away 

To the tomb. 

Let me live as she lived, and die 

As she died; 
Deny me not this, let me lie 

At her side. 

How sweetly we'll rest in the grave. 

When I die. 
Though nought but the cypress trees wave 

Where we lie. 



126 



POEMS BY VA VID BARKER. 



EAELY EECOLLECTIONS. 

I'm sitting aloiic, in my office, dear Low., 

Both writing and singing my lays, 
I'm laughing and ciying, as memory runs back, 

To the time of our bojdiood days. 

Though lawyer you are, do you mintf it, dear Lew., 

The cottage where first we saw light, 
Which father so carefully chinked up with moss. 

To keep all the crevices tight? 

D'ye mind it, your lubberly form, my dear Lew., 

Your eyes ever laughing through tears. 
Your ball and your skates, and your trundling hoop. 

The bliss of your earlier years ? 

D'ye mind it, the times I have switched you, dear Lew., 
When, "Mother!" or some such a shield. 

Was the word that instinctively burst from your lips, 
While / took to the woods or the field ? 

D'ye mind it, the road Avith the gateway, dear Lew., 

That led down to Stevens's mill — 
The spot where old Patrick the jDorcupine slew, 

Near the "little ij-reat rock" on the hill ? 



POEMS liY DA VID liARKER. 

D'yo mind it, our ihoLIici-'h red ciipbotird, dour Low. 

Where nut-cukes mid buniiocks were kept; 
The old trundle-bed, that was pulled out on trucks, 

Where Ave have so peaceftdly slept? 

At pic-nic and tavern and jam, my dear Lew., 

I've feasted quite often, since then, 
But all of such foa*ts I would give to the 'logs. 

To lunch at that cupboard again. 

Since then, upon mattress and sofa, dear Lew., 
Oft times I have pillowed my head, — 

But, ah, I have never yet found such repose 
As came from that old trundle bed ! 

Our mother, dear Lew., though decrepit and old, 

Has baked us a loaf, now and then. 
To sec if by practice we ever could find 

Tlio tastes of our childhood again! 

That poor mother's labors, I fear, were in vain, 

Our efforts wore powerless, too. 
For life's bitter emptings has tainted those loaves. 

And poisoned uui' appetites. Lew. 

D'ye mind it, old Ilephzibah's ferule, dear Lew., 
Which taught us to read and to spell ? 



127 



128 



POEMS BY DAVID liARKKR. 

Tlio fears of lluit fcrtiK' wci'c kiii lo the Icai'S 
i now cMit(U"taiii of a lu'll. 

Tliat fc'rulo was luissiiii;-, oiio noon, my dear Tjow., 
AVhilo :ilo])lizil)ali wont to her homo,— 

As(! Lombard — but Asa I will not oxjioso — 
For, mind it, \vc '<;'reo(l to kooj> mum. 

^^y^."! mind it, our liM-riblo jMiinshmont, Tjovv., 

That sittini;- with Ca(lu^rin(> K'uss! 
Our ]KH'i)ini;- Ihro' linii;crs wlion j^risonod thoro, too, 

To soo who woi'o i^-igglini;; at us? 

'Tis strange, my dear Low., liow that liabit, of Uite, 

lias conquered that boyish Ibar ; 
Since thou I liavc sal a wliolo night bosi(U^ Kate, 

Without oven shedding one tear! 

i)'3'o mind it, the phico where wo tcctoi-otl, dear Lew. 

Tlio fence that stood over the run ? 
Sueli teetering. Low., was an innocent sport, 

For, mind it, we teetered for fun. 

Since then I have teetered with hirgor sized boys. 

But alwaj^s have teetered for pelf; 
I've teetered full many a hid from tlie phmk, 

But once I got teetered myself 



I'OJCAJ.H J!Y DAVID JtAHKEH. 



129 



J)'3'e niiiul i(, Ww drciuH'iil loii;;- iiii;lil, tli:iL wo passed — 

The night wo clivitlod our coin — 
The iiiiiopoiieo wo saved Ibr I he miisler, dear Low., 

Th(^ iniislt^r lliat came in the luoni ? 

D'ye mind i(, old liuhinson'M huskiiiif, dear Lew., 

AVliere all drank new vmw from a jug-; 
Where husking eonii^ienced with a Jig and a reel, 

And closed with a kiss and a hug? 

I am now a i-igid te(>totaller, Lew., 

And stick to my princi])les snug, 
And nothing would tom})t me to "Ii<tuor" again, 

Unless 'twas old liobinson's jug! 

D'ye mind it, how anxious 3'ou were, my dear Low., 

To liave the good liaying-time last 
One season, when finding a biimhle-bces' nest, 

In every rock-heap that you ])assed ? 

D'3'e mind it, the day of all days in our youth. 

When death camo so liorrid and grim. 
And brandished his sc^'the till lie clipped the last thread 

Of the life of the dog avc called ".rHm?" 

D'ye mind it, the knoll by the "booch-bai-s," dear Lew., 
Where beech-nuts so many we got. 



130 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



And lug'ged in our caps down to Huckins' store, 
To barter for powder and shot ? 

Since beech-nuts grew dull, Lew, I've tried other schemes, 

And now am in business that pays ; 
But all of my gains I would toss to the winds 

For a month of our boyhood days. 

For, mind it, those times were the times when we thought 

"What any one said must be true ; 
Since then, from some causes I will not explain, 

A change has come over us, Lew. 

If days like the days I am talking of, Lew., 
Through eternity's rounds could be given. 

As true as my Bible I'd not give a fig 

For a pass through the portals of heaven. 

THE OLD SHIP OF STATE. 

O'er the dark and the gloomy horizon that bounds her, 
Thro' the storm and the night and the hell that surrounds her 
I can see with a faith which immortals have given. 
Burning words, blazing out o'er the portals of heaven, 

"SHE WILL LIVE!" 

But a part of the freight that our forefathers gave her, 
We must cast to the deep yawning waters to save her, — 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



131 



'Tis the chain for the shivc we must fling out to light her, 
'Tis the brand and the Avhip we must yiekl up to right her. 

She will live. 

Clean the decks of the curse — if opposed by the owner, 
Hurl the wretch to the wave, as they hurled over Jonah, 
With a "freedom to alj^," gleaming forth from our banner, 
Let the tyrant yet learn we have, freemen to man her. 

She will live. 

She will live while a billow lies swelling before her. 
She will live while the blue arch of heaven bends o'er her ; 
While the name of a Christ to the fallen we cherish. 
Till the hopes in the breast of humanity perish, 

She will live. 

THE TEMPLARS. 

Dedicated to the members of St. John's Encampment, Bangor, Maine. 

Who aid the widows with their mites, 
And guard the helpless virgin's rights ? — 
A band of old and valiant Knights, 

The Templars. 

To save a friend, who walk around 

With blood-stained feet, on frozen ground? 



132 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

If any such are ever found — 

They're Templarf 

Who shield the Christians as they kneel, 
And wall them in with burnished steel, 
And guard them well thro' woe and weal? 
The Temi)lar8. 

What men are those, despite of scars, 
Who, facing flashing scimetars. 
Defend the Cross in Holy Wars ? 

The Templars. 

When Knights are called from "labor" here, 
Who throng around the sable bier, 
And drop the warm, fraternal tear? — 

The Templars. 

God of our Craft, enable me 

A faithful, worthy Knight to be, 

And bring me home, at last, to Thee 

A Templar. 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



TO JOim BEOWN m PEISOX. 

stand firm, John Brown, till your fate is o'er, 

For the world, with an anxious ej^e, 
Looks on as it seldom has looked before, 
While the hour j^f your doom draws nigh — 
Stand firm, 
John Brown, 
Stand firm ! 

Dread not the blow that a cowaz'd deals. 

And fear not the tyrant's nod. 
Doubt not the end of the work you would shape, 
For you're shaping the work of God — 
Stand firm, 
John Brown, 
Stand firm! 

The outer John Brown they may torture and kill, 

And tumble it into a grave, 
But the inner John Brown Avill trouble them still, 
By its whisperings 'round with the slave — 
Stand firm, 
John Brown, 
Stand firm! 



133 



134 



POEMS n Y DA VJD BARKER. 

Dcjitli ncjirs yon, John Brown, old outer John Brown, 

And marks you us food for the worm, 
But death nor tlie worm can liarm inner John Brown, 
So inner John Brown, stand firm — 
Stand firm, 

John Brown, . 
Stand firm ! 
Ohl inner John Brown, Stand firm ! 



l^^ANNIE WARD. 

Pull oft J liave dreamed of tlie hours, Fannie Ward, 

Full oft of those joy-laden hours, 
Wo strolled from your cot, when your cheek was in bloom, 

And sung with the birds in the bowers. 

And well J remember the day, Fannie Ward — 

That cheerless and sorrowful day — 
My spirit was faintini;" and bleeding within. 

When bearing you, lifeless, away. 

This world has been dreary since then, Fannie Ward — 

Most gloomy and dreary since then — 
And sad wore each moment, except for the hope 

To meet you, in heaven, again. 

Do you ever look down from the skies, Fannie Ward, 
From your own happy home in (he skies, 



POEMS JIY DAVID liARKKR. ^35 

To noto tli«^ wild throbs of my sorrowin/^ heart, 
And count tho toar-dropH in my eyes? 

Oh, grant nu; hut thin, only this, Fannie Ward, 

Oh, grant me, my lost oiu-, but this: 
Eestrain me when tempted to swerve from the path 

Which loads to your haven of bliss. 

Tliat vow which 1 breatluMl as you died, Fannie Ward — 

Tinit vow, in your car, as you died — 
Is fresh on my heart, as when kneeling, I pledged 

To make none but Fannie my bride. 



A Li. AT HOME. 

Drive every care and pain tlio farthest distance, 

For wo, tho children ten. 
And thoy, tho two, who blest us with oxistonco, 

Are all at home again. 

Say not that three are dead and gono forever, 

Talk not to mo of gloom, 
Tell not of Jordan's cold and cheerless river, 

And brood not o'er tho tomb. 



13G 



I'U/CMS U Y DA Vll) BAIlKEli. 

Wo all are hero, and God has not bereft ns, 

Then every g-rief assuai;-e ; 
They have not gone I'ai- olV, but only leCt us, 

Like aetors on the sslage, 

And stepped aside behind a sable curtain, 

Which briefly drops between ; 
The nine and three are busied dressing 

Just ibr another scene. 

I hear their footfalls (inicliiiii; all ar()un<l us, 
1 see their shadowy ibrms now Hitting b}^, 

I feel the pressure of the tie that bound us, 
I breathe their teachings of philosophy. 

Then drive each cai'c and pain (he farthest distance 

For we, the children ten. 
And they, the two, who blest us with existence, 

Are all at home au'aiii. 



WHEN YOU AND I WERE BOYS. 

To Gen. James Henry Cai-leton, U. S. A. 

i'ni dreaming of (he days, (K'ar .lames, 

Sucli days wo ne'er shall know, 
When happiness lived up this way, 



I'OICMS JJY DAVID ItAItKHIt. 

Sonic ( wciily _yc;irs w^o : 
When Hh'L could stroll uihI licurls (^oiild b(!ul, 

7\ii(l iicvci- I'ccI r;ili,i;(ic, 
Those tinu?s vvc Kvviiiii, :iih1 fislicd, iuid huIIcmI 

Upon oldKendiiHkoag. 

That Btroam now rip{)lcH jiint the sumo, 

So calm, and ctear, but Hiill, 
And liinis that Hamc old waicr-wlicci, 

I'cncalh tliat Hamo old mill. 
Hilt now, dear .TamcH, thal^ anciciiit mill 

Another crow employs, 
The crew now Bleeps that run that mill. 

When yon and I \ver(! boys. 

Where are those lads with whom we spelt 

"Within that school-hoiiso room ? 
Some fur away are hourdin<^- gold, 

Some rest within tho tomb. 
The change that timo has written here, 

Oft makes tho tear-drop start, 
And sends a sickening coldness tlirough 

Each fibre of my h(!Ui't. 

We've clumborcd up the hill of life — 
llow short the journey secuus; 



137 



238 POEMS B Y DA FID BARKER. 

And now iirc ]»i(('liin^- o'im- ilic top, 
J3ound to tho land o\' dreams. 

But wlion at last wo roach the foot, 
And Icavo our earthly toys, 

Oh, may wo moot just as wo mot 
When you and I wore hoys. 

In toddling down tho dreary slope, 

Beset with dangerous snares, 
Our locks hleached out by frosty winds 

Our backs bent down hy cares; 
Full oft we'll stop to take a breath, 

And scare away fatigue, 
By dreaming of our boyish sports 

Upon old Konduskoag. 

In battling through our pilgrimage. 

Amid the ceaseless strife. 
And jostlings at each stop wo take. 

Throughout this warring life. 
Oh, would it not exceed all bliss. 

Transcend all earthly joys. 
To feel tho freshness that we felt 

When you and I wore boys. 



139 



I'OHMS ity n.iii/) i:m!I<i:i!. 
ONK WOULD AT y\ TlMh:. 

I (lolllit liol. Illlll (J(;(l llHS (M'Cillcil HOIlHi H|»ll<!|-(', 

Si>iiic r('L!;ioii ol' i!X(|iiiHi(,(i hlins, 
Alorc H-lorioiiH, by Cur, (liuii \\n\ joiii'iicy iJiro' licro, 
And live (Voiii IImi koim-owh of iJiiw. 

I)iit iiiortiiirt arc (liiciiiiiiii<i;, wliilo |tIo(|(|iii<i; aloii/^, 

Too much of tliiit licavonly cliino ; 
They'd h((ltcr he Hiii;ii;iiifj; tliis pracUcal hoii;^ — 

This iiiollo: One worM al- a liiiio. 

To (iod, l() }'oiirHcl(', lo your fellow l»c jnul, 
T(^ iJic winds Loss your (M-ecds and your- Hcct,H, 

And, icuvini;- Ihis world, wilJi a, conlidonco LruHl 
To the chaiiecH lliai lollow Uic next. 



YOU THOUSAND OV MK.N. 

A<l<lrc88C«l to the istli Maine ReKimcnl, on Wn dcimrUirc, (orthi) Hcittol' wiir, 1802. 

Say, where !ii'(! }'oii ^oin;;;, yon thousand of in(!n '{ 

Now one Miin;^ is ccrlain, 
Thut iiev(!r, ali n(!vcr 
ThiH Hi(hj ih(! deep river, 

TliiH Hid(! Mk' dai-k eurl.ain 
JuhI flung out Lo K(;r(U!n us, 



140 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

Which drops down between us 
And those who've passed over 
That cold, stormy river, 
No, never again 
Shall this crowd ever meet you. 
Shall this throng over greet you, 
In a bodily form, 
With your hearts beating warm- 
You thousand of men ! 

But, thank the Great Giver, 
Though crossing that river. 
Your bai'ks may be shattered. 
Your Outer Garbs tattered — 

Thank God that again 
From the mount you inherit, 
You may come back in spirit. 
All you who pass over 
That cold, stormy river — 
You may come back to meet us, 
You may come back to greet us, 

With your hearts beating warm, 
In a blesseder form — 

You thousand of men ! 

With the clearest of vision 

I have witnessed the vearnino- 



rOEMS n Y DA VI D li AUK Eli. \/^\ 

Of the troops now returning 
From the liind so elysian ; 

Of the troops who passed over 
That cold, stormy river, 
'Mid the roar and the rattle 
Of a nation in battle — 
So, quickly again. 
From the mount you inherit, 

You must come back to meet us. 
You must come back to greet us. 
You must come back in spirit, 

With your hearts beating warm, 
In a blissfuller form, 
All you who pass over 
That cold, stormy river — 

From you thousand of men ! 

ACT YOURSELF. 

If you ever act at all. 
Act yourself ; 
Never try to ape another, 
Sink or swim, or rise or fall. 
Never imitate, but rather 
Act yourself. 



1 J^ 2 -P OEMS BY DAVID BA RKER. 

Brains than many have you less, 
Act yourself, 
Each for something must be fit, 
Give me native foolishness, 

Rather than this borrowed wit, — 
Act yourself. 

Elephants should never dance, 
Act yourself: 
Turkeys should not try to hound, 
Women should not wear the pants, 
Men should never wear the gown- 
Act yourself. 

Forms nor fashions never heed, 
Act 3'ourself ; 
Talk of fashions for a man ! 
Copies never did succeed, 

And mere copies never can. — 
Act yourself. 

Human nature wants her way, 
Act yourself 
Out upon the tricks of art, 
When you have a word to say, 

When you take the simplest part, 
Act yourself 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

A FEW WORDS 

FROM MAINE TO MASSACHUSETTS ABOUT THE BURNS CASE. 

" Massachusetts, God forgive her, 

She's a kneeling 'mong the rest, 
She that ought to have cking forever 
In her grand okl eagle-nest." 

Is water running in your veins ?" 

Have ye no pluck at all ; 
"What, stand and see a gyve put on 

In sight of Fancuil Hall. 

For many a long and tedious year 

We've heard your people tell 
About a little rise of land, 

Where Joseph Warren fell. 

Oh, brag no more about that spot. 

Let every tongue be still, 
But scratch the name of Bunker out, 

And call it "Buncombe" Hill. 

We have no Boston down in Maine, 
No Massachusetts Bay, 



113 



]^44 POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

No Plymouth Ptoek to tell the world, 
Where once the Mayflower lay, 

No Garrisons, no Phillipses, 

No poets, martyrs, sages. 
No mighty man to light a torch 

To lighten future ages. 

And yet, with all our ignorance, 

We've often felt of late, 
That Burns could never have been dragged 

From out the "Pine Tree State." 



"THE FOOLS AIN'T ALL DEAD." 

"The fools ain't all dead" is a maxim that's sounded 
From grog-shop and stable, from tavern and shed, 

And truthfuller adage was never propounded, 

Than this modern proverb, "the fools ain't all dead. 

While Virtue, in tatters, is shunned and neglected, 
And wanders an outcast, forlorn and distressed, 

While Yice, in its tinsel, is w^ooed and respected — 
Invited and flattered, esteemed and caressed. 



I'OEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



146 



While Quackery the practice of Science is aping — 
Thoiio-h Science goes hungry, while Quackery is fed — 

AVhile hundreds and thousands are greedil}^ gaping 
To swallow a humbug, "the fools ain't all dead." 

While kinsman with kinsman, or neighbor with neighbor, 

For merest of trifles will madly dispute. 
And squander the pro^ceeds of twenty years' labor 

To settle the quarrel b}^ reference or suit; 

While printers depend for their bread upon patrons ; 

While ballots are sold for a demagogue's bow ; 
While damsels, despite of advice from the matrons, 

Will barter their all for a libertine's vow ; 

While striplings imagine that leaving the tillage, 
Where Nature designed thein as fixtures for life, 

And flocking, imported, to city or village, 
Imbued with the notions of Potiphar's wife ; 

That they, by a system of swelling and blowing, • • 

And long ere the hay-chaff has worked from the head, 

Can fix the impression they're fellows worth knowing, 
'Tis fair to presume that "the fools ain't all dead." 

While churchmen will argue that every true preacher 

Should pound out his sermon, by stamping and blows ; 

10 



146 



POEMS r.Y DAVID BARKER. 



That learning disqualifies man for a teacher, 

And gospel's not pure till it twangs through the nose 

While women conjecture that novels, before them, 
Will stamp them forever as ladies of taste, 

That man cannot fail to admire and adore them, 
For smallncss of feet and for hornet-like waist; 

While fops are esteemed for the starch in the collar, 
And bear's oil 's preferred to the brains in the head ; 

While merit's outweighed by the "almighty dollar," 
'Tis plain to be seen that "the fools ain't all dead." 

" The fools ain't all dead," and my readers will know it. 
For he who can hope to win glory or bread, 

By leaving his law-books and turning to poet. 
Illustrates the fact that " the fools ain't all dead." 

THE LION AND THE SKUNK. 

A DREABI. 

I met a lion in my path, 

('Twas on a dreary autumn night), 

Who gave me the altei-native 
To either run or fight. 

I dure not turn npon the track, 
I dare not think to run away, 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKEIi. 

For four the lion :it my back, 
Would seize me as kis prey. 

So summoning a fearless air, 

Though all my soul was full of fight, 
I said unto the forest king, 

I will not run but fight. 

Wc fought, and as the fates decreed, 
I conquered in the bloody fray, 

For soon the lion at my feet 
A lifeless f-uiea.se !a\'. 

A little skunk was standing by, 
And noted what the lion spoke, 

And when ho saw the lion die, 
The lion's tracks he took. 

lie used the lion's very speech, 

For, stretching to his utmost height, 

He gave rae the alternative. 
To either run or fight. 

I saw he was prepared to fling 
Fresh odors from his bushy tail, 

And knew those odors very soon 
My nostrils would assail. 



147 



148 



POEMS li Y DA VJI) BARKER. 

So summoning a bumble air, 

Tbougb all my soul was free from frigbt, 
I said unto the dirty skunk : 

I'll run but will not fight. 

MORAL. 

As years begin to cool my blood, 
I rather all would doubt my spunk, 

Than for a moment undertake 
To fight a human skunk. 

OLD EUFUS BAY, 

OR "WHEN THE PLACE WAS NEW." 

In an ancient cottage yonder, 

Lives old Rufus Ray, 
To that cottage oft I wander 

At the close of day. 

ike a fixture now h^ 
On his bed of pain, 
Grief has filched with thievish fingers, 
Reason from his brain. 

Passing brief the words he utters, 
Senseless words, but few. 



POEMS BY DAVID BARK EH. 

This, and only thin he muttei's : 
" When the phicc was new." 

Years agone ho loved a maiden, 

Blindly, fondly, true, 
But she died with koitow laden, 

"When the place was now." 

Grief then filched with thievish fingen 

Reason from his brain ; 
Ever since this being lingers 

On his bed of pain. 

God restore that long-lost maiden. 

Wretched man, to you. 
May you meet at last in Aiden, 

Where " the place is now." 

In a lonely cottage yonder. 

Breathes one Rufus Ray, 
To that cottage let us wander. 

At the close of day. 

We shall find he ever utters 

Senseless words, but few ; 
This, and only this he mutters: 

"When the place was new." 



149 



150 



POEMS BY DA VI D DARKER. 



SAXON PLUCK. 



Oh that some power would make and sell 

A different ink and pen, 
That I might truly write and tell 

About one kind of men. 

A set that's alwaj's sure to pass, 

And worlds can't v.'ag without 'em — 

A "yes-sir," "no-sir," dodging class, 
With no back-bone about 'em. 

A scraping, bowing kind of folks, 
Who o'er the rounds are going, 

And always watching weather-cocks, 
To see how winds are blowing. 

If you hate colored gentlemen. 
And think j'ourselves above 'em 

'Tis just as well to say so, then, 
As 'tis to say you love 'em. 

Or think that slaver}^ is Avorso 

Than any other evil ; 
A filching, eating, mildew curse, 

Begotten by the devil ; ■ 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

Then loose your tongues and talk it out, 
And let the lEunkcrs' howl. — 

No man is fit to be about 
Who trembles at a growl. 

Or, if you say and truly think 

A statute touching toddy, 
Is worse than certain pauper drink, 

Which kills the soul and bod}"-, 

Hepcal the law, oi'raise a storm, 
And j^ass around the " Cag," 

But do not shield your brandy form 
Behind a temperance flag. 

But if you take the other tack. 
And say the law should stand, 

And if you know it sluices back 
Damnation from the laud, 

Sustain the act in spite of knocks, 

And keep away the sin, 
Though you must wade to ballot-box 

In purple to the chin. 

J5ut if you haven't get the nerve. 
An honest hand to show. 



151 



152 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKKll. 

If you loill quiver, nod and swerve, 
Like saplings in a blow; 

Your hobbies fix, and stand between, 

And buckle if you must, 
]3ut mind it, men, 'tis shocking mean 

To be a lapping dust. 

For better far it is to say, 
"We will not curve the back, 

Though pestilence shall hedge our way, 
And sword be on our track. 

I saw a temperance talker once. 

Embrace a stupid bloat, 
And dicker with the loathsome dunce, 

For what ? — to get his vote ! 

Methought I'd sooner bend my knees 

To idols in the east 
Than trim my sails to catch the breeze 

Which blow from such a beast. 

A spotless life is not my toast, 

I never had the luck •• 
Of being pure — then let me boast 

Of ffood old Saxon Pluck. 



POEMS Ji Y DA VID HAUKKR. \^^ 



"OLD WILLKY." 

Who cures in this crowd what a Homer says 

Of the warring men in tlie ancient days ; 
AVliat matters it now to you or mc 

Though the Ihad or Odyssey, 
May tell of the tBc time when a Trojan corse 

Was 1 ramped by the feet of a Grecian horse j 
Though the epic song of the bard may state 

How Achilles fell at the Scaean Gate ? 
But it startles a world that I am come down 

To tell of a man from my native town : 
Of a man, unknown, obscure and plain. 

But who once belonged to the 11th of Maine ! 

When Slavery, pressed by Freedom hard 

Fired up the heart of a Beauregard, 
And the first red shot from Sumter fell 

And the Eagle screamed like a scream from hell ; 
When her shriek went out o'er vale and crag 

As she clung like death to the dear old Flag, 
And the tirst kind look she got, was one 

From a man named Eobert Anderson, 
I felt somehow, and I wrote and said 

That we had a big old trouble ahead. 



154 



POEAfS r>Y DAVID baukku. 

Willi all my faith in Gel and such, 

With all my religion, and that wan't much, 

My faith wan't clear, and my hope wan't light 
Till Daniel E. Willey went into the light. 

They called him "Old Willey" u]^ there, I'm sure 

'Tis a tei-m ol't used when our clothes get poor — 
lie laid the wall, and he sawed the wood 

For me and others in the neighhorhood ; 
Ho never could lecture and never could speak 

One word of grammar, and couldn't read Greek, 
Though he dwelt in that old school, 'tis true. 

Where the old road butts at the avenue. 
Through Ins leaky boots you could see his feet, 

As he toiled for his daily food to e;vt ; 
For many a palm can never hold 

The sordid dust that is scraped from gold. 
Though he felled the trees and he tilled the lands 

With his brawny arms and his horii}^ hands, 
It never entered a soldier's brain 

That Willey would ever fight or train ; 
And never getting a draft or call 

He sawed the wood and he laid the wall. 

One da}^ to my village two men rode down — 
Yes, both came over from Stetson town, 



POEMS li Y DA VID BARKEU. 



155 



And one was (icr.cral Ilill, I believo, 

Ko liadn'l on then that cmpt}^ sleeve ; 
1 could told them quick that he wouldn't yield 

For a one li^-Jit arm on the Deej) Run field ; 
7\nd the other Cellovv with Hill, they say- 
Was General PlaiHted, who talks to-day. 
This Willey and I were standing o'er 

(lie sawing wood) near my office door. 
As the men iVom Stetson town I'odo by 

A neighbor of mine was standing nigh, — 
With his traitor lips to the startled air 

lie liissed the flag that was floating there. 
Like a granite post Old Willey stood 

And his old saw di-opped from the half-sawed wood 
Then he hoisted the strap round his big broad hips 

And he crumbled the pipe 'neath his firm blue lips; 
And Ids burnt, tanned face gave a fiendish smile, 

Vtwi never a woi'd did he s])eak the while 
Till lie gloAvered at the man hard by, and Avhen 

He taunted that Union flag again. 
Then his tortured nerves like a serpent coiled 

And these tough woi-ds from the old man boiled : 
Says ho ^'Did you liear how that devil hissed; 

By Jesvs, Squire, I'm going to enlist /" 
Though he split huge logs, he couldn't stand 



166 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

The thought of a rift in his native hind, 
And he did enlist, for the brave old soul, 

With his name on the gallant Plaisted's roll, 
For the cast of a die, for a loss or gain. 

With the gory, famed old 11th of Maine, 
For a mortal fray with his kith and kind 

Left a dy'iwg wife and a child behind, 
Marched out to the front where he fought and bled, 

And he came back maimed, and now he is dead. 
With his folded arms he lies so still 

In a cold, sound sleep on the "Crowell Hill." 
I wish I knew if he felt the least 

As he felt when our Father's flag was hissed ; 
For he slumbers there 'neath a beetling crag 

By the side of the one who hissed the flag. 

As we go all pale, with the boatman, o'er 
In our final voyage to the other shore. 
Mid the fearful surge of the rolling tide. 
Sometimes you know, 
That friend and foe 
Will crouch and cuddle down side by side. 

In the last review, somewhere beyond. 

Of the world's grand armj^ train ; 
When the books are read to an anxious throng 



POEMS BY DA VID BAIiKER. 



And they call for the 11th of Maine, 
And the Judges come to Willey's case, 

Looking so wise and grim ; 
Unless by some strange farce they rout, 

And crush this life's remembrance out, 
Or blot those scenes of Avarring strife 

AVhcn battling for a Nation's life, 
And from my soul wipe every trace 

Of love for Country, Home and Eace ; 
If any part of me is there, 

In the face of every power I swear 
If Willey finds no credit given, 

Behind those balance sheets in Heaven, 
For fighting in the 11th of Maine, 

And reaps thereby no single gain — 
Although a spirit death I die 

With loss of immortality. 
Should I find his case is going hard 

I'll help the old man "run the guard" 
Ere the gold gate swings on him. 



157 



158 



POEMS B Y DA VID BARKER. 



HOPE OF BLISS. 

SIXTEEN LINES. 



Build barriers high, and wide uiid deep, 

To wall your castes apart, 
Such forti'esses can never keep 

The heart from answering heart. 

A magic, telegraj)hic cord 

Extends from soul to soul. 
On which leap burning thought and word, 

Despite of man's control. 

The king, with crown upon his head, 

The beggar at his gate, 
The Christian on his dj^ing bed, 

The convict at his grate, 

One common hope together share, 

A boon for rich and jioor, 
Each to that hope a rightful heir, 

A hoi">e of bliss in store. 



POEMS B r DA VIJJ UARKEB. 



J\]Y LAST PtECiUEST. 

Brethren of ouv mystic order, 

Bound tog-ether by a tie, 
Olden, sacred and enduring. 

Come and see a Craftsman die. 

ATatch like angels round ni}^ pillow, 
Till the ransomed spirit flies 

To its Excellent Grand Master, 
In his lodge above the skies. 

Oft we've met upon the Level, 
Let us part upon the Square — 

Perfect Ashlers in the temple, 
May we meet together there. 

Let no stranger's hand entomb me 
Underneath the tufted sod, 

None except a brother Mason 
Should consign my dust to God. 

Ileave no formal sigh of sorrow 
O'er the ashes of the dead, 

Only plant the priceless symbol, 
Freshly blooming at my head. 



159 



160 



POEMS BY DA FID BAIiKER. 

"When death's gavel sound shall call you 

Off from Labor unto rest, 
May you, Craftsmen, find Refreshment 

In the mansions of the blest. 



NEVEIi GET READY TO DIE. 

Up, up, and give fight to the legions of wrong, 

Give zealots and bigots the lie, 
Who cantingly tell you, with faces so long, 

That all should get ready to die. 

This world is too full of your dying ones, now, 

And we need in this terrible strife, 
Not souls that are jjining and fainting, I trow, 

But souls that have vigor and life. 

While one lift at humanity's wheels you can give, 
Or one tear you can wipe from the eye. 

Get ready, my brother, keep ready to live, 
But never get ready to die. 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



WHEN, WHERE, AND HOW SHALL I DIE. 

When shall I 'die? 
It ma}^ be, perchance, to-iaorrow, 
Ere a larger, newer sorrow 
Comes around my soul to borrow 

Half the b^ss it saves ; 
It may be when locks are bleaching, 
When life's lengthened shadow's teaching 
That my feet are swiftly reaching 

Near a place for graves. 

Where shall I die? 
It may be with tearless stranger, 
It may be mid toil and danger. 
It may be in hut or manger. 

Far from friends removed ; 
It may be when friends are near me, 
Breathing kindly words to cheer me — 
Few, who neither scorn nor fear me. 

Friends my heart has proved. 

Mow shall I die? 
It may be when doubts assail me, 
When my trust in God shall fail me, 



161 



162 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

While 11 horde of pluintoms hnil me 

From u hind of gloom ; 
It may be when hope attends me, 
When a world's Eedeemer sends mo 
Living, dying faith, that lends me 

Peace beyond the tomb. 

Thou Great Architect of Power, 
Though my sky of life must lower, 
Aid me in death's awful hour, 

Save me from despair — 
When I cross the stormy river, 
Be my bark, my pilot, ever, 
Leave me, Clod of, mercy, never, — 

This is all my prayer. 

THE SOLDIERS OF MEDUXNEKEAG. 
Come on with me now, let us travel on, 

Not f^xr, not many a league, 
From the spot where the old and the ^old St. John 

Locks hands Avith Meduxnekeag. 

As a pay or a fee, for this stroll with me, 

I will tell you a tale to-day, 
Of the wife, the mother, the widow — all three — 

And the soldiers — llol)ei-t Gray. 



POEMS I!Y DA VI I) llARKER. 

It was hero, very near where we stroll to-day, 
Where the grim old barrack stands, 

Tliat a girl, in the pride of her youth, they say 
With a Sergeant f^Jray locked hands. 

JJiit death stole into those barrack walls, 
Which stood r^ear the I'iver's banks. 

And entered the name of that Sergeant Gray 
On the list of his spectre ranks. 

But the years rolled b3^ at Meduxnekeag, 
When quick came a country's call 

For the name of her own — of her manly boy — 
Through a rent in that barrack wall. 

She bade him go forth from Meduxnekeag, 
To his God and his country true — 

She bade him go forth, this young Kobert Gray 
Clad out in his Union blue. 

lie went, but he wandered not back again 
To the roof near the river's banks — 

He went like his father, old Sergeant Grray, 
To fill lip deatli's spectre ranks. 



1G3 



164 



rOEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

From the charge on that field, that was steeping in gore, 
He went where the brave spirits dwell, 

"With "no matter for me, but push on my brave boys," 
Einging out o'er the shot and the shell. 

What is that crouching there, in the barrack nook. 

Bowed down by the hand of dismay? 
There's a trace in her face of the laughing girl — 

'Tis the mother of Eobert Gray! 

Let us leave these weird walls at Meduxnekeag, 

I'm too old and asluimed to cry. 
And I feel that the tears are rushing fast 

For the crow's feet 'round my eye. 

But my friends, if you worship a God in this life, 

And you ever kneel down to pray, 
Eemember the mother — the widow — the wife 

Of the soldiers — Eobert Gray. 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



GIVE TTIEM BREAD AN"!) NOT A STONE. 

[At a nieetinjyof the Grand Lodge of Maine in 1851, a resolution was introduced 
authorizing the apiiropriation of a certain amount of the Lodge Funds for the pur- 
chase of a block for the Washington monument. The Uon. Comp. Kzra B. French, 
of Damariscotta, opposed the passage of the resolution in a very eloquent speech. 
In the course of his remarks he said: "When the orphan children of our dead 
brethren throng around us destitute and tearful and ash for bread, will ye give them a 
stone f"] 

First dry that orphan's tears, 

And hush that orphan's cries, 
Then pile up, if ye will. 

Your marble to the skies. 

But, Craftsmen, spare that fund, 

Part earnings of the dead, 
A pittance laid aside 

To buy their orphans bread. 

Touch not a single dime, 

But let that fund alone — 
'Tis mocking God and man. 

To barter it for stone. 

'Tis better, better far. 

No monument should rise, 
To tell the hallowed spot 

Where any hero lies. 



166 



POEMS B Y DA VID BAIiKEIi. 

Than that one orphan child 
Should pine for want of bread, 

Or gold be squandered oft', 
By which that child is fed. 

First dry that orphan's tears, 
And hush that orphan's cries, 

Then pile up, if ye will, 
Your marble to the skies. 



MAKE YOUR MARK. 

In the quarries should you toil, 

Make your mark. 
Do you delve upon the soil, 

Make your mark, 
In whatever path you go. 

In whatever place you stand, 
Moving swift or moving slow. 
With a firm and honest hand, 
Make your mark. 

Should opponents hedge your waj^ 
Make your mark, 

Work by night, or work by day. 
Make your mark. 



POEMS BY DAVID liAliKKIi. 

Strug-g-le nuinf'tilly iind well, 

Let no obstacles oppose, 
None right-shielded ever fell 

By the weapons of his foes, 

Make your mark. 

What though born a peasant's son, 

Make your mark, 
Good by poor men can be done. 
Make your mark, 
Peasant's garbs may warm the cold, 
Peasant's w^ords may calm a fear, 
Better far than hording gold 
Is the drying of a tear, 

Malie your mark. 

Life is fleeting as a shade. 

Make your mark, 
Marks of some kind must be made, 

Make your mark. 
Make it while the arm is strong, 
In the golden hours of youth, 
Never, never make it wrong, 
Make it with the stamji of truth 
Make vour mark. 



167 



168 



POEMS BY J>AV/n BARKER. 



"PIOUS LIKE HELL." 

A few years sinoo <a powerful revivMl of religion was wif.nessed at Oliltown, 
Maine. Among the liopeful converts was an Indian of tlie reuobscot tribe, who, 
soon after his conversion, attended a prayer-meeting, and was called upon to "tell 
his experience." Not exactly nnderstanding the construction of the King's English, 
Peol expressed himself as follows : "Oli, glory; me feel pious like hell." That 
incident suggests tlie following stanzas : 

TJio liund ofivligion is ])otei)t to save, 

Its value 110 mortul can ]M-ize, 
It leads us in safety clear clown to the grave, 

Then gives us a pass to the skies. 
But since the grand choice in the garden was given, 

Since Adam from Paradise fell, 
Full many are found to be pious like heaven, 

While many are "pious, like hell." 

I once was an oi])hiin hoy, mortgaged and leased, 

And served without ho])c of a fee, 
For one who was lending the Lord what she fleeced 

From the girl in the Iciteheii and me. 
'Twas a day or tAvo since that I gazed on the face 

Of her, the once mademoiselle. 
And thought — tho' she bragged of "abounding in grace" — 

Of Peol, and '^])ious like hell." 



POKMS IIY DAVID UARKEli. 

But tares in the wheat, nor tho counterfeit coin, 

.Should rob us no night of our rest, — 
Let this Ijo our motto wliilc journeyinij; on: 

God orders all things for I he best. 
And mind it, no knoAvlcdgo to mortals is given, 

By Avhich that frail mortal can tell, 
Except by the truits, who is pious like heaven, 

Oi", Peol-like, "pious, like hell." 



THE .AtASON'S DEATH AND BURIAL. 

The old church bell struck a startling note, 

And sent forth a solemn knelling. 
While every peal from his brazen throat 

Of a sundered tic was telling. 

And soon I hcai'd from a Craftsman, woe, 

And the summons hastily spoken, 
That a brother was passed from the lodge below, 

That a link in our chain was broken. 

With a quivering lip and a glistening tear, 

Each Craftsman speedily hurried 
To see that the cold, pale sleeper there, 

In an ancient form was buried. 



160 



170 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

We laid him down in liis lonely tomb, 
Our hearts o'ercharged with sorrow, 

But saw through the m3^stic sprig in bloom 
The gleam of a brighter morrow. 

The sickening sound of the falling sod. 
Which covered our brother's coffin, 

Was lost in the wails that rose to God 
From the widowed wife and orphan. 

Ah, little they dreamed in that darksome hour. 
When the bitter tears were gushing, 

And fell despair, with a tyrant's power. 
The stricken heart was crushing. 

Of a pledge we breathed to our brother at rest, 

Who lies in his narrow coffin, 
A balm that shall soothe the troubled breast 

Of that widoAvcd wife and orphan. 



POEMS B Y DA VID HARKER. 171 



JOHN WARNER'S NOT DEAD.=^ 

Wliy mourn you— tiio Craft? lor John Warner's not dead, 

Thouo-h bis body lies pulseless and still, 
Tbat missile wbicb forced its fierce way tbrough the bead, 

No real Jobn Warn«er could kill. 

John Warner's not dead, though the casket is dumb, 

BHt has gone on a mission of love, 
With his Compass and Square, with his Level and Plumb, 

To his work in the Grand Lodge above. 

John AV-avner's not dead, but will often return, 

And oft in our Lodge will appear, 
And o'er his cold ashes which lie in the urn, 

Will whisper the AVord in our ear. 

John Warner's not dead— by each hope in my breast, 

I would swear on this spot where I stand, 
That since the last sun sank in silence to rest, 

I have felt the Strong Grip from his hand. 

* John Warner, of Kcnduskcag, a member of Pacific Lodge, Exeter Me .Ko^64. 
and of the 2d Maine Regiment, was accidcntaUy shot in camp at Hall ^ H'l . Va., 
Feb. 24, 1802, and was buried with Masonic honors at Kenduskeag, March 7, iso-. 



172 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



INFLUENCE AND KETEIBUTION. 

Ye cannot send the simplest line 

Abroad from oif youv pen, 
But ye must meet, in future Loui", 

That very line again. 

The slightest word ye cannot speak 

Within a mortal car, 
But that the echo of such word 

Ye must forever hear. 

Ye cannot stride one single step, 

While journeying here below, 
But that some brother takes your path 

For happiness or woe. 

Unholy thoughts ye cannot think, 

Though never once expressed. 
But that some demon plucks those thoughts, 

To fill another's breast. 

Then watch your pen with miser care, 

And let its labors be 
A fount of solace to the soul, 

And not of misery. 



POEMS BY DAVID BAliKER. 

And guard your lips, nor let them speak 

A word, which future years 
Can by some magic process change 

To bitter, burning tears. 

And mark the road on which you stand, 
And note your footsteps well, 

And shun that broad, frequented track, 
Which leads away to hell. 

And check your vain, unholy thoughts, 

As much as in you lies. 
Nor let them rob you of that bliss 

Beyond the starry skies. 



TEY AGAIN. 

Should your cherished purpose fail, 

Try again. 
Never falter, never quail, 

Try agaiu. 
Nerve the arm and raise the hand, 

Fling the outer garments by. 
With a dauntless courage stand, 
Shouting forth the battle-cry, 
Try again. 



173 



174 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

Is your spirit bowed by grief, 

Try again, 
Rally quick, for life is brief. 

Try again ; 
Every saint in yonder sphere. 

Borne through tribulation there, 
Whispers in the anxious ear 
Of each mortal, in despaii'. 

Try again. 

What though stricken to the earth. 
Try again — 
Up, as from a second birth. 

Try again. 
Yonder flower beneath the tread, 

Struggling when the foot has gor 
Eising feebly in its bed. 

Tells the hopeless looker-on 

Try again. 

Guided by the hand of Right, 

Try again, 

With Hope's taper for a light, 

Try again. 

With a^destin}^ like ours, 



P OEMS B Y DA VID BA liKER. ^ 7 5 

And tbiit destiny to choose, 
AVitli such God-created powers, 
And a heaven to gain or lose, 
Try again. 



ArOSTEOPHE TO A GONG. 

Tliey say, old thunderer, that away in China, 
Some thousand miles the other side of earth, 

Where tea is grown beyond the ocean briny. 
Near the big, ancient wall, thou hadst thy birth. 

If true or not, the one who gave thee breath, 

Ought to have lived until he starved to death. 

No doubt that China-man once kept an inn. 
And was a Shylock and a hardened sinner, 

Who, for the sole and naked thirst for "/m," 
ConsiDired to cheat his guests of half a dinner ; 

And so the old, penurious, wicked sprite 

Invented thee, to kill the appetite. 

Strange that the love of gold and power of error 
• Should propagate upon the human brain, 
And proffer birth to such a child of terror — 
A progeny to fill the world with pain. 



176 



POEMS nr DAVID BARKER. 

An instrument of woe, that only serves 
To furnish torture for the feeble nerves. 

I fear there is a hell — our Bibles teach it — 

And reason, conscience, say the Bible's true, 
And lettered priests in every nation preach it. 

Except a raodenij theoretic few- 
Insurance agents, peddling out for hire 
Sham policies against eternal fire. 

But in those dark and foul and burning regions, 
Whose direful noises echo loud and long. 

There is no sound sent forth by hellish legions 
One-half so horrid as thy noise, oh Gong. 

For wild and fearful though their howlings be, 
The}^ are, to thine, a perfect symphony ! 



THE EMPTY SLEEVE. 

By the moon's pale light, to this gazing thi-ong, 
Let me tell one tale, let me sing one song — 
'Tis a tale devoid of an aim or plan, 
'Tis a simple song of a one arm man ; 
Till this very hour, I could ne'er believe 
What a tell-tale thing is an empty -sleeve — 
What a weird, queer thing is an empty sleeve. 



POEMS BY DA VJD DAItKER. 

It tolls in a silent tone to all 
Of a country's need and a country's call, 
Of a kiss and a tear for a child and wife, 
And a hurried march for a nation's life; 
Till this verj^ hour, would 3'ou e'er believe 
What a tell-tale thing is an empty sleeve — • 
What a weird, queer thing is an empty sleeve. 

It tells of a battle-field of gore, 
Of the sabre's clash, of the cannon's roar, 
Of the deadly charge — of the bugle's note, 
Of a gurgling sound in a foeman's throat, 
Of the whizzing grape — of the fier^^ shell, 
Of a scene which mimics the scenes of hell; 
Till this very hour, Avho could e'er believe 
What a tell-tale thing is an empty sleeve — 
What a weird, queer thing is an empty sleeve. 

Though it points to a mj-riad wounds and scars. 

Yet it tells that a flag, with the stripes and stars, 

In God's own chosen time will take 

Each place of the rag with the rattle-snake, 

And it points to a time when that flag will wave 

O'er a land where there breathes no cowering slave ; 

To the top of the skies lot us all then heave 

One proud hurrah for the empty sleeve ! 

For the one arm man, and the empty sleeve! 
12 



177 



178 



I'OKMS ISY VAVll) ISAItKKR. 



THE KEBELLION. 



There's a law of compensation and a law of rctribiitiou 

For each mortal and each nation, 

And I've seen the plain solution. 

If there's truth in the evangel 

Then the old recording- angel, 

By that law of compensation, 

And that law of retribution. 

For I've seen the whole solution, 

Has a reckoning with this nation. 

I have seen the primal entry 
In the books beyond the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Gaunt and grim beside the river; 
At the bridge that passes ovei-, 
At the dark bridge with the cover. 

On a midnight dark and dreary, 
AYhen my form was weak and weary, 
Then my spirit left its dwelling. 
Left it in another's keeping, 
In the kind care of another. 
Of a lovin": ana'ci brother, 



POKMS JIY DA VTD BARKER. -i^j(\ 



Who luul left Ill's ciirtli friends weeping, 
And Lad crossed the rivor svvelh'ng, 
]Jut had found a passage over 
Through the dark hi-idgo with the cover 
And had made another entry 
On the shore this sitle the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Gaunt and grim beside the river. 

As m}^ spirit made its entry 
On the shore beyond the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Gaunt and grim beside the river, 
At the bridge that passes over, 
At the dark bridge with the cover, 
There I met the writing angel, 
With his records all before him. 
And a halo hanging o'er him, 
With his books named in the evangel. 
With a saddened, anxious feeling. 
Through my inner s])irit stealing, 
Turned I to the Avriting angel. 
With his books named in the evangel, 
Just to learn the situation 
Of our struggling, bleeding nation; 



180 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 

Just to learn this from the entry 
On the books beyond the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Gaunt and grim beside the river, 
At the bridge tliat ]:)asses over, 
At the dark bridge with the cover. 

"With a tear the angel said it, 
" There's your debt, and there's your credit. 
Just inspect each primal entry 
On the books this side the sentry. 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Graunt and grim beside the river, 
At the bridge that passes over, 
At the dark bridge with the cover." 
Turned I quick aside the cover, 
And I glanced the pages over, 
And I found the primal entry 
On the books beside the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever. 
Gaunt and grim beside the river, 
At the bridge that passes over, 
At the dark bridge with the cover. 
Was before the old embargo. 
When the Dutch ship with her cargo 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

Ploughed her keel across our waters, 
With her fettered sons and daughters. 
'Twas a charge for countless terrors, 
And the middle passage horrors. 
Turned I then again the cover, 
And I searched the pages over, 
But I found x\o credit entry 
On the books beyond the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Gaunt and grim, beside the river, 
At the bridge that passes over, 
At the dark bridge with the cover. 
Then I gave unto the angel 
All his books named in the evangel, 
When a deep and saddened feeling- 
Came across my spirit stealing ; 
But the angel sternly said it — 
" You shall have your honest credit." 
Then the next and second entiy 
On the books bej^ond the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Gaunt and grim beside the river, 
Was the wails of wives and mothers. 
And for fothers, sistei's, brothers — 



181 



182 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

When the auction hammer thundered 
That all human ties were sundei-ed. 

Then the next and final entry 
On the books beyond the sentry, 
Of the sentry standing ever 
Gaunt and grim beside the river, 
At the bridge that passes over, 
At the dark bridge vi'ith the cover, 
Was the proceeds of the cargo, 
Brought before the old embargo ; 
And I found the angel had it, 
With each mill of interest added. 
But we pass now to the credit, 
As the writing angel had it — 
'When your land is filled with terrors, 
Like the middle passage horrors. 
All the horrors of each cargo. 
Since the Dutch keel ploughed your waters, 
With her sable sons and daughters. 
Long before the slave embargo ; 
When your Avails of wives and mothers, 
Of your fathers, sisters, brothers. 
Shall amount through all your slaughters, 
To the wails of sons and daughters. 



I'OEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

Of tlio sublc sons uiul (hiiigliters, 
ShiGO the auction banimer thundered 
That all human ties wore sundered ; 
When the proceeds of the cargo, 
Brought before the old embargo, ' 
When the proceeds as you had it, 
With each mill^of interest added, 
Shall be squandered in your slaughters, 
Mid 3'our wails of wives and daughters, 
You will get your honest credit." 

Then he closed the opening cover, 
When again I crossed the river, 
By the sentry standing ever, 
Gaunt and grim beside that river, 
Then my spirit sought its dwelling, 
Left within another's keeping, 
Of an angel brother's keeping, 
When my brother left this dwelling. 
And re-crossed the river swelling 
From the land with sorrow laden, 
To his better home in Aidenn. 



183 



184 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



THE SPANKED BOTTOM. 

Though years have fled, I mind it yet, 

I and my lawyer brother, 
Would badger, bother, tire and fret 

A kind, old praying mother. 

Her Avords would scarcely leave her there, 

Ere he and I forgot 'em, 
When, as a substitute for prayer, 

She spanked our 3'outhful bottom. 

With inward throat, and outward pout, 

I and my legal brother, 
Agreed that heaven had dealt us out 

A rash and cruel mother. 

Since then, as on life's billows tossed, 
With sin's old chains a clanking, 

I find those teachings were not lost, 
That praying and that spanking. 

Mid smiles and tears — mid hopes and fears, 
And creeds that long have bound me, 

This is the last song of my years, 
For each God's child around me : 



POEMS B Y DA VID BARKER. \%^ 

We need some secret power aloft, 

To rule, direct and love us, 
And need our spirit bottoms oft 

Spanked b}' some band above us. 



THE HAjImEE and THE ANYIL. 

Improve your hour as best you may, 
Keep up your fitful clamor; 

I chance to be the anvil, now. 
You chance to be the hammer. 

Although to deal the heaviest stroke, 

Your heated nerves are straining, 
The thinking, passive anvil gives 

No token of complaining. 
Although the falling hammer, now, 

The dented face is scorning, 
Y^our patient anvil, in its ring, 

Sends forth this note of warning — 

Eemember, 'mid your causeless blows, 
Remember, 'mid your clamor, 

You yet may be the anvil, boj^s, 
And I may be the hammer. 



186 



POEMS BY DA VII) BARKER. 



WEITTEN FOE THE PROPOSED MEETING- 

OF NORTHERN AND SOUTHERN MASONS IN MASSACHUSETTS. 

Craftsmen, craving kindly greeting, 

Doff your blue and gray, 
Let us hold one cordial meeting 

On the Square, to-day. 

Whether coming from our regions, 

Where the pine-tree grows — 
Whether coming from your legions. 

Where the orange blows ; 

From plebeians, or from princes, 

Owning gold or dross. 
Sing we " in hoc, signo vinces," 

Marching 'round the Cross. 

If war's thundering roar and rattle 

Haunt our memories still, 
Let them come from that old battle 

Fought on Bunkei-'s Hill ; 



POEMS B Y DA VID HARK Eli. ^ 87 

Let each blackened corpse of passion, 

In its casements rot — 
Plant no mj^stic sprii^ Acacian 

E'er to mark the spot. 

Lot us biuy feuds, forever, 

Deep in common graves ; 
Let us quaff, for now or never. 

From Lethean waves. 

When we cross the final ferry, 

Claiming earth no more— 
When we step from out the wherry, 

On that distant shore. 

We will strike one harp and tymbal 

At the master's calls; 
We will use one word and symbol 

In the mystic halls. 



188 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



A SONG FOR THE BOYS. 

Stand up my boys, form in the ring, 

Look sober unci behave, 
And il'you want to hear one sing, 

J list hear your uncle Dave. 

But mind it, boys, I'll only try 
To sing for ^'ou, who, hurled 

And knocked about, have had to lie 
Spoon-fashion to the world. 

Whose peasant fathers gave you life, 
Mixed in with toil and care, 

And sent you forward to the strife 
With hay-seed in your hair. 

You red-haired urchin — atop that noise- 

I'll not detain you long, 
I never trouble men nor boys 

With any tedious song. 

This world, though some incline to call 

It full of grips and grabs, 
Is just the place, boj's, after all 

To learn your A B Abs. 



POEMS B Y DA VI D liAUKER. 

And any man or ben- will find, 

If not a hopeless ibol, 
That after all 'tis not behind 

A Avonian's sinumcr school. 

Whatever voyag^e in life you make, 
Though driven before the blast, 

Leave something in the troubled wake, 
To show that you have passed. 

Let ruin come, if come it must, 
But never act the knave, — 

Be loyal, virtuous and just, 
Just like your Uncle Dave. 



FIVE STANZAS. 

Grasp your paddle, take your boat, 
Kow the course you think is best, 

But you shouldn't face the east 
While you paddle to the west, 
Never. 

Fight for virtue or for vice, 
On your passage to the grave ; 



189 



190 



POEMS BY VAVID BJliKKIi. 

Never sit astride the fence ; 
Be an honest man or knave, 
Ever. 

Go for error or for truth ; 

Go for darkness or for light ; 
Paint your flag- and hang it out, 

Be it black or be it white. 
Ever. 

Have a notion of your own ; 

Speak that notion plain and flat ; 
Be a mouse or be a bird ; 

Never tr}" to play the bat, 

Never. 

Never ape the tad-pole, man ; 

Never swim around incog ; 
Off with tail or off with claAvs ; 

Be a polliwog or frog, 

Ever. 



POEMS BY DAVID JiAJiKEIi. 



191 



LINES ADDEESSED TO JOHN A. HILL, 
CAPT. OF CO. K, Hth me. reg't, at a public meeting in stetson. 

AYclcome back again, brave soldier. 
From your fields of fire and flood ; 

Welcome to your scenes of childhood, 
Tho' your hands be stained with blood. 

From the pallid lips of weakness; 

From the florid lips of health ; 
From the poor man in his tatters; 

From the rich man in his wealth; 

From the old man, toddling to you. 

Trusting to his faithful cane ; 
From the wee ones at the window, 

Prattling through the broken pane; 

From your brethren with the lambskin, 

And their mystic grip and sign ; 
From the poet, in his frenzies, 

Coming from the fabled nine ; 

There's a greeting for you, soldier, 
From the great and from the small ; 

There's a welcome for you, Craftsman^- 
There's a welcome from us all. 



292 POEMS BY DA VID BAIiKEIi. 

THE POET'S INYITATIOK 

If I have found upon this mortal plain, 

One whose full heart to mine an echo gives ; 
"Who notes my hope, my fear, my bliss, my pain, 
Come where a poet lives, 
is'ot to my walls, where justice blushes decked 

With legal quibbles and the foolish flaw, 
Where the best gushings of the soul are wrecked 
Among the mists of law ; 
Not to my curtained room, so primly cold, 
Filled with formalities so dull and drear, 
Whose latticed bars, to chase awa}^ the mould, 
Are opened once a year ; 

Not to my room, where the grim, miser chest 

Sends forth its creakings from its iron lid, 
To tell some heir, when life escapes my breast, 
Where ghostly gains are hid ; 
But come where nxj best treasures caper round 

Upon the worn, and on the dented floor ; 
Where blessed tiny hand-prints may be found 
Upon the cup-board door ; 

Come to my home, where every trifle tells, 

In summing up the ills and joj^s of life, 
Not to the home where my dear lady dwells, 
But where I keep my wife. 



POEMS liY DAVID BARKER. ] Qg 

THE BEVELLED GEIND-STONE. 

Some tliirty years ago, or so, 

AVlien I lived with my mother, 
I know a man, whose name was Joe, 

And Simon, his half brother. 

Now SimoM was a whole-soul man, 

Though often getting mellow ; 
But Joe was made on a different plan — 

A most penurious fellow. 

This Joe — for so the neighbors say — 

Told Simon, his half brother. 
He thought it might be made to pay 

To run a grind-stone together. 

They bought the stone, when Joe, j^ou know, 

Just ground it to a bevel ; 
For, as I said before, this Joe 

Was meaner than the devil. 

He gave the left side of the stone 

To Simon, his half brother, 

And run the right-hand side alone, 

AVhile Simon run the other. 
13 



194 



POEMS BY DA VI D BARKER. 

When neighbors came to grind — now mind, 

And Joe — the mean one — finding 
They had no coin to pa}- — they say 
He gave them Simon's side to grind, 
Who charged no fee for grinding. 

As time rolled on, they sa}-, one day 

That Joe came in a frothing; 
For, grinding on the other side, 
Old Simon's bevel-side grew ioi.de, 

While Joe's run off to nothing. 



I sing to each earth-child around. 

To each whose ''head is level": 
When piled beneath that six-foot mound, 
If not before, you'll surely find 
' Tis just as loell to let folks grind 
Upon your side the bevel. 



POliMS n Y DA VIV BARKER. ^ 95 



THE WHEAT AND THE TARES. 

Oh, 'tis mtuiy a year, 

111 the country, up here. 

Since the wheat and the tares 
Grew together in pairs — 

Like a sister and brother. 

Like a father and mother — 

Without one or the other 
Always "putting on airs." 

Then when the storm came, 
And the big thunder hurled 
Many a bolt at the Avorld, 

Then the wheat and the tares. 
Growing timid, appalled, 

And, forgetting each name 
By which they were called. 

And forgetting the threat 

As to which should be burned, 

They each to the other 
Instinctively turned. 



196 



POEMS BY DAVID BAIIKER. 

Yes, the wheat iind the tai-es, 
In the midst of their tight, 
'Mid the gloom of the night. 
Leaned on to each other — 
Like a sister and brothei", 
Li Ice a father and niothcr — 
Without one or the other 

Even "putting on airs." 



THE SIX FELLOWS.* 

'Twas yesterday — or day before — 

I, and a country cousin, 
Saw six grave fellows on a seat, 

(Near half a "baker's dozen.") 

'Twas latish in the afternoon. 

And rather chilly weather — 
So these six fellows, in a box. 

Were huddled up together. 

* Published in the Bangor Daily WJiiff and Courier, accompanied by the fol- 
lowing remarks by the editor :— " The following impromptu lines were dashed off 
by their witty and gifted author during a few lounging minutes in the Court 
room, the other afternoon, where six judges were holding a Law term." 



POEMS JIY VAVin nAUKISR. j^g^ 

Now some of thoiu would talk uloud, 
And some of them would mutter — 

Ami some of them were hmk and lean, 
And some were fat as butter. 

Another fellow f — 'cause the seat 
Wan't wid* enough to hold him — 

Sat near, and with a pen wrote down 
What these six fellows told him. 

Two other fellows with the six 

Make eight, when all together; 
Perhaps these fellows staid away 

Because 'twas rainy weather. 

I noticed these six fellows thei-e — 

Who in a kind of line were — 
Wore merely middling kind of clothes. 

And not so good as mine were. 

They sat and looked upon some books — 

I think they call them dockets ; 
They had no blacking on their boots — 

No watches in their pockets. 

t Report€»" of DecisionB. 



198 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

I gazed upon those fellows there, 
And as the twilight streamed off, 

Strange fancies flittei-ed thro' my brain, 
Few mortals ever dreamed of; 

For, these six fellows hold a power — 

A poAver for good or evil — 
Which, analyzed and understood, 

AVould fright the very devil. 

For soon these fellows separate, 

And scoot about to try us ; 
The place they go I most forget, 

But think 'tis ^^Nisi Prius.'' 

And if one fellow makes a bull, 

And we poor fellows feel it. 
They have a right to meet again — 

And have the power to heal it. 

The dog you love, the horse jou. drive, 
The gold mines you are selling, 

The hut where shivering children sleep. 
The palace that you dwell in ; 



POEMS U Y DA VI D BARKER. 

The loaf now steaming for a meal, 
The quill-whecl or your carriage; 

Tlic baby mewling in your lap, 
The \\\{'e you won at marriage ; 

Tliat last memento, dear as breath, 

By somo departed, given — 
Love's golden chain, forged out by death, 

To link this life with heaven. 

Some knavish whelp may up and claim 

Before the sun has risen — 
And these six fellows, on that bench, 

Have power to say they're "hisen." 

Grave, worthy seniors, just one word — 

You, on that seat together — 
You, counting six, and with the two, 

Now tell me, frankly, whether 

You deem, because you have the right 
To stop the bells from chiming, 

And have the power to take one's breath. 
That you can stop my rhyming? 



199 



200 



POEMS BY DA VIU BAKKEIi. 

Siigc men, a private word with 3-011 — 
You, oil that seat together — 

You, of the six, and with the two, 
Once more, now tell me, whether 

With all your Courtly wisdom here. 
And all your j^ower for terrors, 

There may not be some higher Powei'- 
Some upper "Court of Errors?" 



BILLY DEB. 

Come, dwellers in this mortal tent. 

Just step aside and see 
The cold and fleshly tenement, 

Where dwelt poor Billy Dee. 

When Billy's house gTew old and poor, 
From life's rude storms and wind, 

He battered down the outer door. 
And left the wreck behind. 

But in that land where Billy went. 
Each kind and genei'ous brother 

Gave something from his spirit tent 
To build him up another. 



J' OEMS 11 Y DAVID HARK Ell. 



201 



A WELCOME 

TO THE HUGH DE PAYKN COMMANDERY OP KNIGHTS TEMPLAR, 
MELROSE, MASSACHUSETTS. AT BANGOR, JULY 20, 1869. 

Criiftsmcn, listen to my sayings : — 
Welcome, welcome, Hugh De Pjiyens, 

From old Massachusetts Bay, 
To our climes \vhere Boreas bloweth, 
AVhere the sturdy pine-tree groweth, 

AYelcome to our shores to-day. 

From your land, with ago so hoarj^, 
Land of pilgrim, song and storj'. 

From your living streets and marts, 
From your sacred soil of Warren, 
AVelcome to our cliifs, though barren, 

Welcome to our homes and hearts. 

Welcome as the old Crusader, 
From the Palestine invader 

Bringing back the sabre scar, 
Mid the songs and feasts and dances. 
And the flash of virgin glances. 

Making sweet the fruits of war. 

Gallant members of our order 
Who have crossed the Cjqirian border, 
Join us in a song to-day, 



202 



POEMS BY DAVID DARKER. 



With a curse (and not a lament) 
For a Philip and a Clement, 
And a tear for De Mola3^ 

Banish now each cankcrini^ sorrow, 
Banish each fear of to-morrow, 

While we ^-ather round our feast ; 
While the thought of rank we smother, 
Welcome here each "Serving Brother," 

Welcome " Knight" and welcome " Priest." * 

Welcome here each SAVorn defender 
Of the helpless virgin tender, 

And the ancient Calvary cross ; 
Bear it, like our Great Exemplar, 
Bear it, patiently, each Templar, 

Though the end be gain or loss. 

When the full earth path we travel, 
And the click of Death's dark gavel 

Falls upon the leaden ear. 
May we meet the Prince of princes 
Shouting " in hoc signo vinces" 

In some new, celestial sphere. 

* Three classes of the " Order of the Temple" in the 12th Century, viz :— " Serv- 
ing Brothers," " Knights" and " Priests." 



I'OEMS BY DAVID ISARKER. 203 



FAITH, HOPE, CHAIUTY. 

Distrust not every form without — 

Thun live through life such living death — 
In the betraying fiend of Doubt, 

I. • Have Faith. 

Though through a blindman's-buff we're led, 

Or though in dusky paths we grope. 
In a blest something, just ahead. 

Have Hope. 

The treacherous blocks we may not see. 

O'er which our stumbling brothers fall — 
So then have God-like Charity 

For all. 

With these — the three — we may be blest, 

And leave behind us, when we go, 
Around Life's sunset, in the west, 

A glow. 

Then onward press, though for the grave, 

And calmly meet the closing strife — 
Death is the only proof we have 

Of life. 



204 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



LINES 
SUGGESTED BY WENDELL PHILLIPS' LECTURE ON THE LOST ARTS. 

You knew that brickyard whore we used to play, 
And the old Lombard horse that ground the chi}'; 

From year to year that bobtail nag was found 
Hitched to the sweep upon his chiyey round ; 

And a new horse, you know, would only find 
The marks and scenes the old nag left behind. 

One day when straddle of that horse's back — 
Proud as a conquering Eoman on the track, 

Filled to the lips with hominy and bliss — 

I had this dream, which Phillips claims as his: 

Man moves in circles — not in onward lines — 
And every track and every truth he finds, 

And every thought that makes him smile or weep, 
Were left by others, pulling 'round the sweep. 



POEMS BY DAriD BARKER. 



PKAYERS AND KISSES. 

This morn I saw a Btcrn man kneel — 

One of the holy order — 
Jle had a white robe round him wrapped, 

"With black upon its border. 

^ 

Just at my front a roguish boy 

Sat there, among the many, 
With laughing eyes, whose name I learned, 

Was little Murray Dana. 

And, at my left, a cherub girl 
Wore smiles as thick as spatter, 

While little Murray, now and then, 
Was throwing kisses at her. 

Pray on, stern man — God give you light — 

To you the task is given 
To guide our stumbling feet aright 

And lead the way to heaven. 

And you, my boy, keep at your task, 
Till death's cold chains have bound you, 

AYith laughing eyes and merr}' heart, 
Thi-ow kisses all around you. 



205 



206 



POEMS BY VAVID BARKER. 

For, mid the throng, that, at the last, 

The gate of glory misses, 
Some may be found upon their knees 

As well as thro win <ji; kisses. 



THOUGHTS AT A FUNERAL. 

My memory holds one thing intact, 

That he, who lies so low. 
Did me a generous, kindly act 

In the long years ago. 

Since then, the teachings of the brain 

Or feelings of the heart. 
Have held for each a different reign, 

And kept our paths apart. 

But now amid death's awful night. 

With tapers burning dim, 
I hold my screen to catch the light. 

And not the shades from him. 



POEMS liY DAVID HAItKEIl. 



MAEY DEE. 

'Tis well that poor old Mary Dee, 

.Some little rest has found, 
For she has washed full fifty years 

For all tl^e folks around. 

Her soldier husband, "Billy Dee," 

I told you once, you know, 
Was captured on Death's skirmish line. 

Some sixty days ago. 

In any hearing up above, 

I shall be glad to tell 
This much, or more, of Mary Dee : 

She did her washings well — 

That by her mild, unlettered tongue, 

No fuss was ever made — 
That when she got her washing through. 

She smoked, or sung, or 25i-ayed. 

If Mary and poor Billy meet 
Beyond Death's sombre screen, 

The first of Mary's care Avill be 
That Billy's robe is clean. 



207 



208 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



THE BLIND GATEMAN. 

I claim the legal right to boast, 

For sure I felt a pride, 
When I, with learn'd Judge Appleton 

Close seated at my side, 
To-day, around 3'our city walls, 

Was taking such a ride ; — 

Around your classic Lovers'-leap, 
And famous old High head — 

Around Mount Hope, where man}- a tear 
H^s crystalized the dead ; 

My steed, held firm, by bit and rein, 
With willing foot step fled 

Around full many a. beetling crag, 

So threatening and bold — 
And nian}^ a weird and shattered home, 

Eeared in the days of old — 
And many a towering, lordly roof 

That hints of treasured gold. 

At last that steed, with hurrying hoof. 

Took Judge and poet o'er, 
And halted with a conscious look 



rOEMS DY DA VI D BARKER. 

At Penury's cold door — 
Those arid lands where city chiefs 
Have garnered up their poor. 

One thing I swear by every saint 
Who dwells above the skies — 

Believe me, how, the thing is true, 
We found, to our surprise, 

That he who swung the gate was blind, 
Because he had no eyes ! 

They say for years that man has stood 
Within that self-same place, 

And swung that ponderous pauper gate 
With the same measured jiace, 

And gazed with that strange, blinded stare 
Into each passer's face. 

I trust, that at the pearly gate, 

The Judge and I shall find 
The gateman there, who lets them in, 

Like Paul Demeritt — blind — 
For sight might magnify some sin, 

And make him change his mind ! 



14 



209 



210 



POEMS D Y DA VID BAltKEB. 



THE BRADBURY BOYS. 

1 know how people talk and feel 

About this noise and fuss, 
This meeting here to-day between 

The Bradbury boys and us. 

How time whirls on — in figuring up 

We find this foct appears : — 
Since last we met these Bradbury boys 

'Tis more than fifty years. 

Perhaps you know these Bradbury boys — 

If not, you ought to know 
This tall, gray fellow hero is Cale, 

And then come Ase and Joe. 

These other fellows, lubbering round, 

Are all our boys, you see — 
Here's Noah and Nat, and Dan and Mark, 

And also Lew and me. 

These Bradburj' boys — one left his laAv, 

And one his grapes and corn. 
And travelled near a thousand miles 

To find where they were born. 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



211 



Look : — here's where old Joe Bradbury lived — 

The pUice that Jiradbiuy tilled, 
And there's the chopping father cleared 

The year that he was liilled. 

And there's \y"here Thomas Townsend dwelt — 

Where, on his leathern seat, 
He took those measures, year by year 

For our tired, i>attering feet. 

Those feet have trod some slippery paths, 

Since death one da}^ so grim. 
Took Townsend from his kit of tools, 

And then his breath from him. 

That broken clam-shell skimmer there. 

This moment found by Joe, 
His mother used for skimming milk 

Some sixty years ago. 

Poor Joe — but then my muse can wait 

Until your cheeks are dry. 
Some think that nought but loss of fees 

Can make a lawj^er cry. 



212 



rOEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

That wall — bold on — Nal's pigs are out — 

Good gracious what a fuss 
Mid pigs and tears to rhyme about 

The Bradbury boys and us. 

Don't ask — that tlionght has bothered me 

This haw and ichere and when, 
We six shall meet and recognize 

These Bradbury boys again. 

Friends of life's early 3"outh accept 

This humble gift of mine, 
A wreath wrought with a hurried hand 

Around this pilgrim shrine. 

However faint a fickle faith, 

Some future bliss insures, 
Amid each agony of doubt 

One present bliss is yours, 

If you will bear to western homes 
Old memories fraught with jo}^, 

As ^neas bore Anchises through 
The burning gates of Troy. 



POEMS P. Y DA VID BARKER. 910 



THE THIRD CREMATION. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE BELFAST FIRE, SEPT., 1873. 

Joseph Dennett, sit down with me here on this rock, 
Rest your legs and you^ heart while you list to my talk, 
Keep the smoke from my eyes while I read you my rhyme, 
Take a lunch from my box in exchange for your time; 
What! Dennett, see there — why, that looks some to me 
Like the cellar and well where your home used to be — 
And the knoll where that burnt, broken bureau is laid, 
Wh}", it looks like the spot where your children once played. 
Twice before, 
Twice before, 
I have stood at 3'our dooi-, 
"When each bell in the spire 
Screamed 'Hhe city's a-fire!" 
First on that wild night in the years long ago, 
(You remember, I know,) 

When, with borrowed horse dray, 

I bore swiftljT- away 

The warm couch where you lay — 

AVhen those fire demons came. 

With their tongues all aflame, 



214 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



And they poured and they swashed their red lava like rain, 
And as roof after roof disappeared from the sight, 
I remember those fiends — how they rollicked that night! 
But your walls, they were brick, 
And your walls, the}^ Avere thick — 
So you lined up your charred, gutted castle again ; 

But now, my tired man, 
They have scooped and have cleaned you clear down to the pan. 

Joseph Dennett, sit still, and don't hurry one mite. 
For I wish to know more of this singular fight — 

Of this fight against odds 

With the demons or gods. 
Say, what have you done and pray what have you said? 
Have you wronged the live living, have you wronged the cold 

dead ? 
I believe in the warm, fervent prayer of the jDriest, 
And believe in my mother's worn bible, at least; 
I believe Avhile we dwell and we grope in the form, 
It behooves us to bow now and then to the storm ; 
But ah, there are times when the bloAvs are too tough — 
AVhen the cold, stolid granite is battered enough; 
There are times when the act would be cow^ardly weak, 
To incline to the smiter the opposite cheek — 

So, old Craftsman, your ear, 

And a word on the Square, 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



215 



If you'i-e honest, before I -would buckle one hair, 

To the Powers in the skies, or the regions below, 

I would stand up alone in j-our desolate Avoe — 

And would say to those powers Avho have scooj^ed you so clean, 

What in heaven do you want — tell me square what you mean ; 

Must 3'ou go? but a word to the close of my rhyme, 

Take the rest of m^' l^nch and this scrip for your time. 



LAYINCi OF THE COENEE STONE, 

TRINITY CHURCH, EXETER. 



Let your mitred Bishop stand 
By this upturned yielding sod. 

And with consecrated hand 
Lay your corner stone to God. 

Then with skillful builders' care 
Eear aloft your sacred dome, 

Eaise your steeple high in air 
Pointing to a spirit home. 

Let no bitter burning brawls 
Foully nursed by blended zeal 

Ever echo round your walls — 
Fatal as the cannon's peal. 



216 



POEMS BY DAVID liAIlKER. 

To 3'our robed and tutored Priest — 
Acting here bis Ecctor's part — 

Let me bold some tbougbts at least, 
Gusbing warmly from my beart. 

Whether pleasure come or pain, 
Whether worldly gain or loss, 
When the crucible you drain. 

Give us gold, refined from dross. 

With a scholar's loyal lore. 
And a beart imbued with love, 

Ever guard your chapel door. 
As they guard the gates above. 

Though your armor bids you face 
All the elements of strife, 

It will elevate your race 
To a higher plain of life, 

Preach the everlasting word 
Free from innovated taints — 

Preach the Christ that Peter heard 
As he journeyed with the Saints. 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 



217 



By the lielp of Him who died 

Aided by redemption's plan, 
Bridge the chasm deep and wide 

That has yawned 'twixt Cod and man. 



AN HOUR ^WITH TOM PLUMADORE. 

What, never saw Tom Plumadore — 
Ilim from the Frenchman nation — 

Who runs the tank at Clinton Grore, 
At the old Barnham station? 

You know Judge Rice, who sleeps on down- 

Our learned, legal brother — 
Him of the highest type of man, 

Tom Plumadore the other. 

Rice is the famed Maine Central boss — 
Runs that machine of "hisen;^' 

Tom runs the tank — a kind of cross 
'Twixt hell and Libby prison. 

For years, within that tank, 'tis said. 
That Bull-Run scarred old fellow. 

Has slept, with pea-straw for his bed, 
And beech-log for his pillow. 



218 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

Oh, strange extremes that meet our eyes, 
Which ever .way we turn 'em — 

Soft down for the sleek limbs of Eiee, 
And straw for Tom at Burnham! 

I tried Tom's bed, and thought, i^erhaps 
My poor, scarred Bull-Run brother 

May find some sweeter, pea-straw naps. 
Than down may 'yield the other. 



THE ATHEIST'S "LAST LOOK." 

The Atheist's child in its coffin slept, 

In the village chapel's nook. 
Ere the time when the stricken father said, 
"'Tis the last lookl" 

He never heeded the soothing balm, 

Which dropped from the holy book, 
But only thought of the time he must say, 
" 'Tis the last look !" 

The lid of the coffin was slowly raised, 

When the crimson his face forsook. 
For he knew that the words must quickly come, 
" 'Tis the last look !" 



POEMS D Y DA VID BARKER. 

lie tottered ulong to the coflRu's side, 
And his child's cold hand he took, 
And uttered a shriek which pierced the heart, 

'"Tis the last look!" 

And I saw a tear in that Athiest's eye, 

And I saw that a Deist shook. 
As he utter(fd those thrilling woi'ds once more, 
'"Tis the last look!" 

Methought if he hoped as a Christian hoped. 

And walked by the light of God's book, 
He never would murmur those words again, 
" 'Tis the last look !" 



WHAT IS TEUE POETEY. 

How many squander off their hours 
In rhyming ^ea with tea., 

And fondly dream it constitutes 
The soul of Poetry ! 

It is not Poetry to frame 

A line that ends with chink, 

And stretch another at its side 
That ends with bobolink. 



219 



220 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

It is not Poetry to hook 

A sole idea up, 
And spread it (as you spread a salve) 

Around a butter-cup. 

The finding but a lonesome thought 
Within a volume, makes 

One think of bobbing for an eel, 
Mixed with a pond of snakes. 

True Poetry can have no length 
Nor breadth — it never lends 

Its body to be measured off 
Upon your fingers' ends. 

True Poetry is never decked — 
It always lives undressed — 

But has a fire to warm itself, 
Concealed within its breast. 

Its joy is this : to find the key 

And keep it in control, 
Which fits the lock that closes up 

The chambers of the soul. 



POEMS B Y DA VID B A UK Eli. 221 

And then it labors long and well 

To learn the magic art 
Of throwing on a screen the lights 

And shadows of the heart. 



LIGHT. 

Brothers, are you faint and wear}^, 
Is your pathway dark and dreary ; 
Doubt, nor fear, nor falter never, 
Let this be your watchword, ever, 

Light! 

Better days may soon be dawning, 
Darkest hours give birth to morning ; 
Yield not to the fiend Despair, 
Keep in mind old Ajax's prayer — 

"Light!" 

Ask no garb from Nemean lion, 
Bat with heart, and nerves of iron. 
Fight your fight in fearless manner, 
With this motto on your banner — 

Lio-ht ! 



222 



POEMS BY DA VID liAItKER. 

Light to stamp each sin with terror, 
Light to hunt and banish error, 
Light to kill or weaken sorrow, 
Light to gild a better morrow — 

Light! 

Light to make oppression falter, 
Light from truth's own burning altar, 
Light to shine on hearts benighted, 
Light to see each wrong is righted — 

Light! 

While one intellect is clowded, 
While one soul in sin is shrouded, 
While a world for light is dying, 
Brother, never cease your crying — 

Light ! 



POEMS BY DAVID li AUK Ell. 



A THOUGHT. 



223 



I wouldn't surrender the exquisite pleasure 
Of soothing a sorrow and drying a tear, 
By heaping around me, regardless of measure, 
The purest of gold and the choicest of treasure 
Which Dives, while living, inherited here. 

I wouldn't add pain to a chord that is aching, 

Nor furrow new lines on the forehead of care, 
Nor prove instrumental, ah never, in making 
One thi'ob of a poor brother's heart that is breaking, 
Or bleeding from wounds by the blade of despair. 

I wouldn't kneel down to the goddess of fashion, 

And list to the notes of her treacherous song, 
Nor govern my pulse by the fever of passion, 
Nor blindly and madly and recklessly dash on,' 
Neglectful of right to the bosom of wrong. 

I wouldn't give much to the world that we live in, 

"Where fruitful is hatred and barren is love, 
Where friendship's foundation is ever ujDheaving, 
And half of existence is squandered- in grieving. 
Except for the hopes of a heaven above. 



224 rOJiMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



STEAMBOAT KNITTING!-. 

On the 24th day of August, A. D., 1853, an aged widow, fully clad in mourning, 
eat quietly and busily engaged in knitting a stockiug in tlie saloon of the Steamer 
renohscot, on her passage from Belfast to Uangor. I observed, to my astonish- 
ment, two young women, goi-geously decked, pointing and laughing at the old lady 
with her knitting work. One of the maidens referred to had a largo hole in the heel 
of her stocking. The foregoing incident suggested the following lines :— 

Knit on — let " moderns" giggle if they will, — 
Knit on, nor squander thine allotted time ; 

Knit on, old matron, and my poet's quill 

Shall tell thy virtues in these measured rhymes. 

Despite of idiot laugh and pointless joke, 

I love to see thee at thy knitting-work. 

Thou 'mind'st me of those stormy days, old Dame, 
"When toil like thine was honored more than now, 

When, stockingless, through blood and frost and flame, 
Our fathers won fresh laurels for the brow ; 

When "Mother Bailey" raised her warring notes, 

And furnished wadding from her petticoats. 

When girls were made to "draw" with handle mop 

In "water colors," o'er unfinished room, 
And taught, on washing-day, the "Avaltzing hop," 

And leax'ned their "music" at the wheel and loom ; 
When silk or satin, or the flaunting gauze, 

Was bad to milk in when the cows were cross. 



POEMS n Y DA VID liARKER. 

When man of brain could triumph o'er his birth, 
When all but monkeys shaved their upper lips, 

AYhen error met by truth Avas ^'crushed to earth" 
When lodge-room was the only place for "grips,' 

When bo3^s \xiid. fathers (now thoy have a "Pa,") 

And lived a space 'twixt nursing and cigar. 

I hate to see the meanest reptile die, 

I hate a fop — I hate a mincing prude ; 
I hate the fret of saw-dust in my eye ; 

I hate a thief — I hate ingratitude. 
But from mine inmost soul far worse than all 
I hate a sneering o'er the sweat of toil, 
And worse than sin I hate the wretch that leads 
The van to taunt a widow in her weeds ; 
I loathe the wretch — if for no reason other 
I have myself, a stricken, widowed mother. 



THE TWO PEISONEES. 

I've somewhere read, or heard, or dreamed. 

And which I cannot.say, 

Of a strange custom, practised long 

By the famed Seneca. 

15 



225 



226 



I'OEMS BY VAVID BAItKElt. 

AVhene'er a tender maiden dies, 

A mourner quickly brings 
A captured bird to Iceep encaged 

Till some sweet song he sings. 

When the chained bird, with dulcet tone. 
Borne by some wan-ior brave, 

Is loosed with many a fond caress 
Above the maiden's grave. 

And charged with many a message there, 

From the rude savage band, 
To bear on swiftest wing to her 

In the bright spirit laud. 

Perchance my chafing, straggling soul. 

Imprisoned close and long, 
Is kept within these earthlv walls 

To test its power of song. 

And soon, like the caged Indian bird. 

Let loose, will carry o'er, 
Some message to the loved who dwell 

Upon God's shining shore. 



POEMS n Y DA VID BARKEn. 



227 



AT THE FRONT. 
'Tis the usage of ^^ears in all wars of the tent — 

With the cannon and grape, with the sword and the gun, 
That the wounded and weak to the rear shall be sent — 

Shall be sent in ])latoons or be sent one by one — 
While #hc front is made up of the brave and the strong, 

Though the battle bo short or the battle be long. 
But the war I am in — in this war with disease — 

With a fear and a tremor the enemy sees, 
To this custom of ages they pay no regard, 

And I sa}" to my race and to God, it is hard — 
It is hard that they send us pale, weak ones ahead. 
Thro' the fight and the march that leads down to the dead. 



COENELE.* 

I am sick, and have left all my papers and laws, 

And am stopping awhile at this tavern of Shaw's ; 

And I take what a prince or a monai'ch might get — 

Just the best of a meal and an ars'nic pellet — 

And this fact should come in : I was here, you should know, 

When they opened this house, thirty-nine years ago. 

From the ci'owd that was here in that year '35, 

Not a soul do I find 'round this mansion alive, 

* Cornelius Crowlev, for 39 years head porter at the Bangor House, and who 
died in 1873. 



228 



POEMS BY DA VID BARKER. 



Kot a man — not a one do I find here about, 

But the porter, "Cornelc," and a Judge with the gout. 

Famed "Cornelc" with his brush, for the boot or the blouse, 

All the world has regarded a pui't of the house. 

What a load he has luo-ired the world's bao'sraije among ! 

For the garrulous old and the jubilant young; 

And he boasts with a true Celtic pride of the touch. 

He has put on the boots of a Webster and such ; 

And to-day, 'mid his books, right in earnest, not sport, 

I have talked on one point, with a Judge of our court — 

And he says that in spite of old statutes or creeds 

This "Cornelo" should now pass by all subsequent deeds. 

When his last load is borne, and the famed porter dies, 

I would carve on the slab at the spot where he lies : 

Here he sleej^s, pai'doned out from the last of his sin. 

Ever true to the faith of his priest and his kin. 

Had he faults? — let the world gossip round as it can — 

He has blacked and has brushed, and has lugged like a man. 

How the dream chills my heart, how the thought makes me feel, 

That a breath may blow out the warm lam]) of "Cornele" — 

Leaving two, only two from that big, ancient crowd, 

And those two peering 'round for the turf and the shroud ; 

One a pale, haggard bard — tottering out on his cane — 

And the other the Judge, on his hammock of pain. 



POEMS B Y DA VI D B A UK Eli. 



KATAIIDIN lEON ^VOIiKvS. 

To my couch in Number tJ, 

Where one Wilder Taylor dwelleth, 
Where the good dames round me fix ■ 

Those raVe trout which Wilder selleth, 

Through the darksome, livelong night, 
Through the hours to sleej) or ponder, 

Comes a stream of molten light. 
From the Davis foundry j^onder. 

As the yielding nuggets melt 

For the crimson pigs of iron, 
How it lights the ftimous belt 

Of the classical Oi-ion 

Lights the north star, pinioned there, 
Where each race and age have found it, 

Lights the blinking Major Bear 
In its index tramps around it. 

Here the invalid seeks rest — 

Seeks the softened nerve to harden, 

Sucking from each brawny breast 
Iron milk from out Katahdin. 



229 



230 



rOKMS BY DAT'IT) BAIiKER. 

Let the bloated millioimiro 
And the worn, demented fogy, 

Gloat around some bill of fare, 
Mid the plates of Saratoga, 

Let the modern-schooled divine, 
With his faithless creed and flurry. 

Shun this cool retreat of mine 
For the Adirondack Murray. 

Let some poet — made not born — 

With strange airs, and verse, and metre, 

Wake his harp each night and morn, 
Eound the relics of St. Peter. 

Better come to Number 6, 

Where one Wilder Taylor dwelleth. 
Where the good dames round you fix 

Those rare trout which Wilder selleth. 

Here the invalid finds rest, 

Finds the softened nerve to harden. 
Sucking from each brawny breast 

Iron milk from out Katahdin. 



POEMS JJ y DA VllJ JiAliKEU. 



231 



THE UNFIXISHED TASK. 

I have stood by the unmarked lowly tomb 
Of the blacksmith, Hiram vStaples, 
Who was made a corse 
When shoeing a horse — 

The old man — Vulcan Staples. 
I have stood mid the gloom 
Of a Virgil's tomb 

In the famous land of Naples, 
And the dirt was the same 
That covered the frame 

Of the old man — Hiram Staples, 
As the dirt that I found 
On the poet's mound 

In the classic land of Najjles. 
One went neath the sod 
Ere the horse was shod 

To the home of the Virgin Marj^, 
And the other went there, 
Mid his dreams so rare, 

On his visit to Meo-ara. 



232 



POEMS BY DAVID BARKER. 

I was sorry that either went under the sod 

Ere the rhymes were finished or the horse was shod, 

But we all pass off with a task undone, 

Sudden and silent, and one by one, 

Like the old man, Hiram Staples, 

Or the bard who died. 

Mid his fame and jiridc, 

In the beauteous land of Naples. 
But the jobs that we leave unfinished here 
We will finish all up in another sphere. 



< Vv • 



r' ^^^ 



f 

? fi 

'^'/•■l 



ii^ 










J^-'-.^ ■;?• '.-^^■^^■^- 


















%^ 



'M§^M 



*^;-' 



